He stopped.

"Tell me," he asked suddenly, "is Strangwise a liar, do you
think?"

Desmond laughed. The question was so very unexpected.

"Let me explain what I mean," said the Chief. "There is a type of
man who is quite incapable of telling the plain, unvarnished
truth. That type of fellow might have the most extraordinary
adventure happen to him and yet be unable to let it stand on its
merits. When he narrates it, he trims it up with all kinds of
embroidery. Is Strangwise that type?"

Desmond thought a moment.

"Your silence is very eloquent," said the Chief drily.

Desmond laughed.

"It's not the silence of consent," he said, "but if you want me
to be quite frank about Strangwise, Chief, I don't mind telling
you I don't like him overmuch. We were very intimate in France.
We were in some very tight corners together and he never let me
down. He showed himself to be a very fine fellow, indeed. There
are points about him I admire immensely. I love his fine
physique, his manliness. I'm sure he's got great strength of
character, too. It's because I admire all this about him that I
think perhaps it's just jealousy on my part when I feel..."

"What?" said the Chief.

"Well," said Desmond slowly, "I feel myself trying to like
something below the surface in the man. And then I am balked.
There seems to be something abysmally deep behind the facade, if
you know what I mean. If I think about it much, it seems to me
that there is too much surface about Strangwise and not enough
foundation! And he smiles... Well, rather often, doesn't he?"

"I know what you mean," said the Chief. "I always tell my young
men to be wary when a man smiles too much. Smiles are sometimes
camouflage, to cover up something that mustn't be seen
underneath! Strangwise is a Canadian, isn't he?"

"I think so," answered Desmond, "anyhow, he has lived there. But
he got his commission over here. He came over some time in 1915,
I believe, and joined up."

"Ah, here we are!" cried the Chief, steering the car down a
turning marked "Laleham Villas."

Laleham Villas proved to be an immensely long terrace of small
two-story houses, each one exactly like the other, the only
difference between them lying in the color of the front doors and
the arrangement of the small strip of garden in front of each.
The houses stretched away on either side in a vista of
smoke-discolored yellow brick. The road was perfectly straight
and, in the dull yellow atmosp