He came ten minutes later, and Una was with him. And the old man had brought John Brownlow's decorations with him.
"I want to thank you," said the girl very gently, "for what you did for me this morning. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't come along."
"I guess you'd have still laid the blighter out," answered Brownlow, with a smile. "It was the peach of a blow, Miss Lovelace."
And then the General stepped forward. "My man," he said gravely, "the doctor has told me of your condition. I fear I did you a grave injustice the other day when I sentenced you to a month's imprisonment. But you may remember that you refused to give any particulars of yourself, which is my only excuse. May I try and make amends now by returning you the medals which I am sure you have every right to wear, and thanking you from the bottom of my heart for your splendid action this morning."
He laid the medals in John Brownlow's hand, and I thought that, for an instant, a strange look of pride shone in the dying man's face. His hand closed round them; then he dropped them on the blanket. "I guess I'd sooner you kept them, General," he said clearly. "You deserve them far more than I do—at least, the only one that counts. That should have been your son's by right."
"What do you mean?" said the General, and his voice shook a little.
"You had a letter, didn't you, from a man called Drayton—Peter Drayton—telling you of the magnificent manner in which your son died?" And now we were all staring at him tensely. "When Drayton was killed," he went on quietly—"you knew that, didn't you?—I read that letter. And I very nearly didn't send it. I thought you might write and make inquiries as to why no award had been made to your son. You see, I was the sole survivor, and if there was a medal going, I wanted it. Not that I'd done anything to deserve it—your son had. But he was dead—and I was alive. In fact, it was only because he was dead, that I was alive—he'd saved my life at the risk of his own."
John Brownlow shrugged his shoulders. "I've no excuses to offer; I got my medal. For I was the only person who was alive to tell the story. And I told—mine."
"I see," said the General quietly. "Well, there's no more to be said about it. Once again I thank you for your action this morning."
"There's one more thing I have to say," went on Brownlow. "I saw a good deal of Drayton and your son during the War, and I formed my own conclusions for what they're worth. I guess that we were none of us plaster saints, but of one thing I'm sure. If it hadn't been for Drayton's rotten influence, your boy would have turned out very differently."
He lay back on his pillows exhausted, and I signed to Sir Hubert and his daughter to go. And it wasn't till he heard the sound of their car as it drove away that Brownlow reopened his eyes. He looked at the medals still lying on the bed; then he looked at me.
"Ever been out East, Doctor?" he muttered. "If so—you'll understand. Tid apa."
"Tid apa." (Nothing matters.)
And two hours later John Brownlow died.
Which would have been the end as far as I was concerned, save for a strange coincidence. A pointless end to a pointless story, as so many ends and stories are—apparently. It's so rare that one gets below the surface, and finds out the truth.
It was some three months later, and I was up in London for a dinner given by the Overseas Club. I went with a pal and it wasn't until half-way through the meal that I spoke to the man on my right. And automatically I glanced at the card in front of him.
"Mr. J. Milligan."
The name seemed vaguely familiar, and yet for the moment I couldn't place it. Milligan—J. Milligan—We talked in a desultory fashion for a few minutes—music-hall and boxing, I think—when suddenly it came to me.
"By God! Joe Milligan, if you tell the old man, I'll murder you."
The words came back to me as dearly as if they'd been spoken aloud, and acting on an impulse I asked Mr. Milligan a question.
"Excuse me," I said. "But is your name Joe?"
He looked at me surprised. "It is. Why?"
"Did you ever know a man called John Brownlow?"
"John Brownlow," he said thoughtfully. "Not that I'm aware of."
"Or Peter Drayton?"
"Drayton," he cried. "Good Lord! I should think I did. A tough nut was Master Peter—very tough. But a gallant scoundrel. I was his platoon commander for months in France. I wonder what has become of the blackguard."
It was my turn now to look surprised. "I gather he was killed, wasn't he? Killed in '16."
"Well, I saw him in '20 very much alive," he answered. "But he was a hopeless wrong 'un. And yet he had his redeeming features. He was the most extraordinarily loyal fellow to his pals, which is an attribute you don't often meet in the type. Great Scott, yes. Know Drayton; I should think I did. Why, I nearly court-martialled him once. He came into my bivouac when we pulled out after a stunt and threatened to murder me if I didn't glorify one of his pals who'd been killed."
I didn't interrupt him, and after a while he laughed. "That, mark you, to a man who had just recommended him for a V.C., though they only gave him a D.C.M. I couldn't be angry with the blighter, so I did what he asked me and escaped death. But they're boring today—those old tales."
"Not always," I said quietly. "What sort of a man to look at was this fellow Drayton?"
"Medium height; pair of very grey eyes. He was as full of bullet wounds as a colander is of holes, and he got the most frightful gassing on this very show I'm talking about. He stopped on in an isolated post after I'd given orders for everyone to retire, and, by God! he held it— alone. And when we counter-attacked we found him there—gassed and sick and shot to ribbons. How he ever pulled through I don't know. But the funny part of the yarn is why he stayed. It was just that strange loyalty I mentioned—loyalty to an even worse waster than himself. Fellow called Lovelace. Got a father who is a General and a V.C. man. And I was so wild at the time that for two pins I'd have written the old man and told him what manner of a rotter his son was. But Drayton made me promise not to—so I let it go. I'm glad now I did."
"And what," I asked, "was the particular crime of Lovelace?"
"He was drunk. Hopelessly, utterly, irredeemably drunk. But then he frequently was. I'd like to know what has become of Drayton. Funny you should think he was dead."
X. — THE MADNESS OF CHARLES TRANTER
ON a certain warm day in June a cat was taking its evening walk through Huckleberry Mews. The cat was not particularly prepossessing, nor, incidentally, was the scene of its promenade. So the matter would hardly be worth while recording but for the fact that that stroll was the direct cause of a man being murdered. And this was the way of it.
The cat having explored several dustbins without any great success, came in due course to an open window, from which there exuded a smell so appetising that after a cautious look round puss jumped on to the sill. And not being greeted by a saucepan at her head she remained there prospecting. The smell came from a pot that sizzled on the range, but her attention did not turn as far afield as that. There, literally under her nose, was a succulent fillet of fish, and what more could any cat desire? Wherefore it came about that as the door opened and Mrs. Rubicon entered, she was just in time to see the cat and the fillet disappearing through the window at speed.
I will refrain from quoting Mrs. Rubicon's remarks, but shortly afterwards the good lady might have been seen to leave the house on her way to the nearest fish shop. It was getting late, and at any moment Mr. Rubicon would return and demand his supper in no uncertain voice. Which was why his wife did not take quite her usual care when she selected a portion of haddock to replace the stolen fillet. And it is also