the
girl--both of you--and then sending her off so suddenly like that."

Sabre essayed to laugh it off. "My wife's rather a sudden person, you
know."

Twyning joined very heartily in the laugh. "Is she?" He looked around.
"She's seeing you off, I suppose?"

"No, she's not. She's not too well. Got a rotten cold."

Twyning stared again in what struck Sabre as rather an odd way. "Oh, I'm
sorry, old man. Nothing much, I hope. Well, you'll want to be getting
in. I'll tell old Bright what you say about Effie. Nothing in it. I
quite understand. Seemed a bit funny at first, that's all. Good-by, old
man. Jolly good luck. Take care of yourself. Jolly good luck."

He put out his hand and squeezed Sabre's in his intensely friendly grip;
and destiny put out its hand and added another and a vital hour to
Sabre's ultimate encounter with life.

X

His leave ended with the one thing utterly unexpected and flagrantly
impossible. One of those meetings so astounding in the fact that the
deviation of a single minute, of half a minute, of what one has been
doing previously would have prevented it; and out of it one of those
frightful things that ought to come with premonition, by hints, by
stages, but that come careering headlong as though malignity, bitter and
wanton, had loosed a savage bolt.

He arranged to spend the night at the Officers' Rest House near Victoria
station. Arriving about nine and disinclined for food, he strolled up to
St. James's Park and walked about a little, then back to the station and
into the yard to buy a paper. He stood on a street refuge to let by a
cab coming out of the station. As it passed he saw its occupants--two
women; and one saw him--Nona! Of all incredible things, Nona!

She stopped the cab and he hurried after it.

"Nona!"

"Marko!"

She said, "I'm hurrying to Euston to catch a train. Tony's mother is
with me."

He could not see her well in the dim light, but he thought she looked
terribly pale and fatigued. And her manner odd. He said, "I'm just going
back. But you, Nona? I thought you were in France?"

"I was--this morning. I only came over to-day."

How funny her voice was. "Nona, you look ill. You sound ill. What's up?
Is anything wrong?"

She said, "Oh, Marko, Tony's killed."

"Nona!"

... That came careering headlong, as though malignity, bitter and wanton,
had loosed a savage bolt.

Tybar killed! The cab was away and he was standing there. Tybar killed.
She had said