desk and laid his head upon
them. Oh, cumulative touch! He began to be shaken with onsets of
emotion, as with sobs. Oh, cumulative touch!

The communicating door opened and Mr. Fortune appeared. He stared at
Sabre in astounded indignation. "Sabre! You here! I must say--I must
admit--"

Sabre clutched up his dry and terrible sobbing. He turned swiftly to Mr.
Fortune and put his hands on the arms of the chair to rise.

A curious look came upon his face. He said, "I say, I'm sorry. I'm
sorry. I--I can't get up."

Mr. Fortune boomed, "Can't get up!"

"I say--No. I say, I think something's happened to me. I can't get up."

The door opened. Hapgood came in, and Nona.

Sabre said, "I say, Hapgood--Nona--Nona! I say, Nona, I think
something's happened to me. I can't get up."

A change came over his face. He collapsed back in the chair.

"Marko! Marko!"

She who thus cried ran forward and threw herself on her knees beside
him, her hands stretched up to him. Hapgood turned furiously on Mr.
Fortune. "Go for a doctor! Go like hell! Sabre! Sabre, old man!"

* * * * *

"Hemorrhage on the brain," said the doctor. "...Well, if there's no more
effusion of blood. You quite understand me. I say _if_ there isn't....
Has he been through any trouble, any kind of strain?

"Trouble," said Hapgood. "Strain. He's been in hell--right in."

* * * * *

When he was removed and they had left him, Nona said to Hapgood as they
came down the steps of the County Hospital, "There was a thing he was so
fond of, Mr. Hapgood:

"...O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

"It comes to me now. There must be a turning now. If he dies ... still,
a turning."

CHAPTER VIII

I

Hapgood across the coffee cups, the liqueur glasses and the cigarettes,
wagged a solemn head at that friend of his, newly returned from a long
visit to America. He wagged a solemn head:

"She's got her divorce, that wife of his....

"Eh?... Well, man alive, where do you expect me to begin? You insinuate
yourself into a Government commission to go to America to lecture with
your 'Sketchbook on the Western Front', and I write you about six
letters to every one I get out of you, and you come back and expect me
to give you a complete social and political and military record of
everything that's happened in your absence. Can't you _read_?...

"Well, have it your own wa