d think of. I believe they're here."

He thrust a hand into one of his pockets and brought out four telegrams,
one, Rosamund's, open, the rest unopened. Worthington lay staring at him
and them, glad perhaps to be turned for a moment from self-contemplation
by any incident, however trifling.

"I'll bet I know whom they're from," said Dion. "One's from old Guy,
one's from Bruce Evelin, and one's from----" He paused, fingering the
telegrams.

"Eh?" said Worthington, still screwing his lips about.

"Perhaps from Beattie, my sister-in-law, unless she and Guy have clubbed
together. Well, let's see."

He tore open the first telegram.

"May you have good luck and come back safe and soon.--BEATTIE--GUY."

He opened the second. It was from Bruce Evelin.

"May you be a happy warrior.--BRUCE EVELIN."

Dion read it more than once, and his lips quivered for a second. He shot
a glance at Worthington, and said, rather bruskly:

"Beatrice and Guy Daventry and Bruce Evelin!"

Worthington gave a little faint nod in the direction of the telegram
that was still unopened.

"Your mater!"

"No; she wrote to me. She hates telegrams, says they're public property.
I wonder who it is."

He pushed a forefinger under the envelope, tore it and pulled out the
telegram.

"The forgotten do not always forget. May Allah have you and all brave
men in His hand.--CYNTHIA CLARKE."

Dion felt Worthington's observant eyes upon him, looked up and met them
as the "Ariosto" rolled and creaked in the heavy gray wash of the sea.

"Funny!" he jerked out.

Worthington lifted inquiring eyebrows but evidently hesitated to speak
just then.

"It's from Mrs. Clarke."

"Beastly of her!" tipped out Worthington. "What--she say?"

"Just wishes me well."

And Dion stuck the telegram back into the flimsy envelope.

When he looked at it again that night he thought the woman from
Stamboul was a very forgiving woman. Almost he wished that she were less
forgiving. She made him now, she had made him in days gone by, feel as
if he had behaved to her almost badly, like a bit of a brute. Of course
that wasn't true. If he hadn't been married, no doubt they might
have been good friends. As things were, friendship between them was
impossible. He did not long for friendship with Mrs. Clarke. His life
was full. There was no room in it for her. But he slightly regretted
that he had met her, and he regretted more that she had wished to know
Rosamund a