Marcelle for that
little blonde from. Richmond, didn't you?"

"A mere passing fancy," says Waddy, flushin' up. "Nothing serious. She
was really engaged all the time to Bent Hawley. They're to be married
next month, I hear. But Marcelle! She has come. Just think, she has been
in this country for weeks, came over with the King and Queen of Belgium
and stayed on. Looking for me. I suppose. And I knew nothing at all
about it until yesterday. She's in Washington. Jimmy Carson saw her
driving down Pennsylvania avenue. He was captain of my company, you
know. Rattle-brained chap, Jimmy. Hadn't kept track of Bruzinski at all.
Knew he came back, but no more. So you see? In order to get that ring I
must find Joe."

"I don't quite get you," says I. "Why not find the lovely Marcelle first
and explain about the ring afterwards?"

Waddy shakes his head. "I was in uniform when she knew me," says he.
"I--I looked rather well in it, I'm told. Anyway, different. But in
civies, even a frock coat, I've an idea she wouldn't recognize me as a
noble hero. Eh?"

"Might be something in that," I admits.

"But if I had the ring that she gave me--her token--well, you see?" goes
on Waddy. "I must have it. So I must find Bruzinski."

"Yes, that's your play," I agrees. "Where did he hail from?"

"Why, from somewhere in Pennsylvania," says Waddy; "some weird little
place that I never could remember the name of."

"Huh!" says I. "Quite a sizable state, you know. You couldn't ramble
through it in an afternoon pagin' Joe Bruzinski."

"I suppose one couldn't," says Waddy. "But there must be some way of
locating him. Couldn't I telegraph to the War Department?"

"You could," says I, "and about a year from next Yom Kippur you might
get a notice that your wire had been received and placed on file. Why,
they're still revisin' casualty lists from the summer of 1918. If you're
in any hurry about gettin' in touch with Mr. Bruzinski----"

"Hurry!" gasps Waddy. "Why, I must find him by tonight."

"That's goin' to call for speed," says I. "I don't see how you
could--Say, now! I just thought of something. We might tickle Uncle Sam
in the W. R. I. B."

"Beg pardon!" says Waddy, gawpin'.

"War Risk Insurance Bureau," I explains. "That is, if Miss Callahan's
still there. Used to be one of our stenogs until she went into war work.
Last I knew she was still at it, had charge of one of the filing cases.
They handle soldier's insurance there, you know, and