right eyes and
gleaming jewels, a blending of all the primary colors and every shade
between, flashing over a polished floor under high, carved ceilings.

He had surrendered Nelly Abbott to a claimant and stood watching the
swirl and glide of the dancers in the Granada one night. His eyes were
on the brilliance a little below the raised area at one end of the
floor, and so was his mind, inquiringly, with the curious concentration
of which his mind was capable. Presently he became aware of some one
speaking to him, tugging at his elbow.

"Oh, come out of it," a voice said derisively.

He looked around at Stubby Abbott.

"Regular trance. I spoke to you twice. In love?"

"Uh-uh. Just thinking," MacRae laughed.

"Deep thinking, I'll say. Want to go down to the billiard room and
smoke?"

They descended to a subterranean chamber where, in a pit lighted by
low-hung shaded globes, men in shirt sleeves clicked the red and white
balls on a score of tables. Rows of leather-upholstered chairs gave
comfort to spectators. They commandeered seats and lighted cigarettes.
"Look," Stubby said. "There's Norman Gower."

Young Gower sat across a corner from them. He was in evening clothes. He
slumped in his chair. His hands were limp along the chair arms. He was
not watching the billiard players. He was staring straight across the
room with the sightless look of one whose mind is far away.

"Another deep thinker," Stubby drawled. "Rather rough going for Norman
these days."

"How?" MacRae asked.

"Funked it over across," Stubby replied. "So they say. Careful to stay
on the right side of the Channel. Paying the penalty now. Girls rather
rub it in. Fellows not too--well, cordial. Pretty rotten for Norman."

"Think he slacked deliberately?" MacRae inquired.

"That's the story. Lord, I don't know," Stubby answered. "He stuck in
England four years. Everybody else that was fit went up the line.
That's all I know. By their deeds ye shall judge them--eh?"

"Perhaps. What does he say about that himself?"

"Nothing, so far as I know. Keeps strictly mum on the war subject,"
Stubby said.

Young Gower did not alter his position during the few minutes they sat
there. He sat staring straight ahead of him, unseeingly. MacRae suddenly
felt sorry for him. If he had told the truth he was suffering a
peculiarly distressing form of injustice, of misconception. MacRae
recalled the passionate undertone in Gower's voice when he said, "I did
the