. . You' better give in! . . ."

He paused for a space, panting feverishly, then his eyes became wilder
and his speech more rapid.

"No! no! Gully!" he gasped out imploringly, "it's Yorkey, I tell you--oh,
don't pick off Yorkey! . . . Drink? . . ."--the unnaturally bright eyes
stared unseeingly at the motionless figure of the O.C., standing at the
foot of the cot--"Not so much--now--since--looking after him. . . . Not
a bad chap. . . . We fought once. . . . Yes, Sir! . . . had--hell of a
fight! . . . Pax? . . . sure!--bless you!--buried ruddy hatchet--auld
lang syne--Slavin. . . . St. Agnes' Eve! . . . How he sings--! Oh,
shut up, Yorkey!--Sings, I tell you--! Hark! . . . that's him singin'
now--Listen! . . . What? . . . it's Stevenson's 'Requiem'. . . . Burke!
Burke! . . . the ----'s always singin' that . . . goes--"

And the weak, fretful voice shrilled up in a quavering falsetto--

"_Under the wide--and--starry sky
Dig--the grave, and--let me--lie;
Glad did I--live, and--gladly die,
And I laid--me down with--a w----_"

The shaky, pitiful tones died away in vague, incoherent mumblings.

Yorke uttered a queer choking sound in his throat, and turned his face
away from the little group. Slavin, in silent comprehending sympathy,
laid a huge hand on the other's shoulder to steady him. In customary
British fashion, the O.C. and the Inspector strove to mask their emotions
under an exaggerated grimness of mien, only their eyes betraying their
feelings. The former, toying with his sweeping, fair moustache in
agitated fashion, gazed drearily around the sick-room till his stern, yet
kindly old eyes finally came to rest upon a framed scriptural quotation
which was hanging on the wall above the head of the cot.

In corpulent, garish, black, red and gold German text the inscription ran:

_At even, when the sun was set,
The sick, O Lord, around Thee lay;
Oh in what divers pains they met!
Oh in what joy they went away!_

Abstractedly, the old soldier read and re-read the verse till his eyes
ached, and he was forced to lower them and meet the tell-tale ones of
Kilbride.

The Doctor, with a final satisfied scrutiny of his patient's wound, which
he had laid bare, bade the nurse dress it afresh, then, beckoning to the
others, he withdrew from the room, followed by the O.C. and his
subordinates. The Doctor's first words reassured them in no little
degree.

"Oh, I've good hopes of him," he sa