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Stacey’s smile disappeared, and his face took on again that intensity that seemed to reveal the presence within him of some single dark absorbing passion.

“Think of it!” he said. “The cold-blooded futile murder in such orders—given why? How should I know? Because Headquarters didn’t care about going through the red tape of changing their prearranged plans, I suppose. Anyhow,” he concluded, “I didn’t obey. I stood out for once against the machine.”

“What did they do to you when they found out?” and: “Did the soldiers under you know?” cried Phil and Catherine simultaneously.

“Can’t say as to my men. My lieutenants knew. They’d never have split on me. But of course I was found out. There we still were, you see, after the Armistice, which came that very day, in the same position as before. My colonel, a decent fellow for a Regular Army officer, did the least he could under the circumstances—relieved me of my command and sent me as liaison officer to Italy, one being called for about then. Whole thing very quiet. No fuss made. I should think not! Wouldn’t I have loved a fuss? But the fact remains,” he said, “that, having set out to ‘make the world a better place to live in’ (wasn’t that the way my departure was explained?—not at the time, of course; then we were to ‘keep our minds neutral’—but posthumously, after three years) I return, having made it a place, of no matter what sort, for a hundred young men or so still to be alive in. They’d have been rotting in neat little graves but for me. And that’s all. I got demobilized over there—eventually—in Italy, and came back, a free man in spite of the uniform, on the ‘Dante.’ And here I am.”