"Sailing to-morrow. War. Pass mill through hair sieve. Clear all
refuse. Watch fireguard. Look around. Plums otherwise ripe.
Return earliest date.

"BULL."

He smiled as he looked up from his reading. An acquaintance passed
through the hall of the hotel. He nodded to him. Then the smile died out
of his eyes, and it was like the passing of a gleam of sunshine. He
passed the message across the counter to the attendant and paid for it.

War! It was only an added development in the course of the ceaseless
work of life. The thought of it disturbed him not one whit. It was the
element in which he thrived. But for all that his mood had lost much of
its usual equanimity.

For two weeks he had applied himself assiduously to the work upon which
he was engaged. He had travelled hundreds of miles to the other capital
cities of the country in pursuit of his affairs. He had worked in that
express fashion which was characteristic of him. But under it all,
through it all, a depressing disappointment hung like a shadow over
every successful effort he put forth. The memory of an evening at the
Chateau haunted him. The vision of smiling hazel eyes and a radiant
crowning of vivid hair filled every moment of his waking dreaming. He
had not seen or heard of Nancy McDonald since that first night in
Quebec.

To-morrow he sailed for England. The thought of it afforded him none of
the satisfaction with which he had always looked forward to that
journey. Yet it meant no less to him now. On the contrary. It really
meant more. It meant that his work was marching forward to the great
completion which was to crown his labours, and the work of those others
who had conceived the task.

It should have been a wonderful moment for him. The house of Leader and
Company of London had thrown its doors open to him in welcome. Sir Frank
Leader with his millions, his shipping, his great power, and the
confidence which his name inspired in British commercial circles, would
not fail. The prospect lying ahead, for all the threatened war, should
have stirred him to a keen enthusiasm that achievement was within his
grasp. But none of these emotions were stirring.

He felt if he could only see Nancy McDonald, that perfect creature with
her amazing beauty and splendid courage, just to exchange a few words,
just to receive her smiling "bon voyage," and even to hear her laughing
declaration of her frank enmity, why--it would--But there was no