seemed to me a most enormous waste of time for any one to have sent over here collecting all those facts about me. I'm normal, Miss Carew; I don't prefer weird explanations. But I admit I walked the streets of London that night. For, you see, one of two things must be true; some one dead, but able to communicate with me, knew a lot about me, and might tell more; or the some one was living; and then—"
"What?"
"I couldn't figure his—or her—reasons."
"For?"
"Communicating with me that way."
"So you believed—"
"Nothing yet. But of course I went back to the same woman—alone this time—the next afternoon."
"And you got?"
"Nothing at all."
"Oh!"
"That rather let me down. The next day I had to go back to France. I was at the front; but Hus stayed in London and kept trying to find out more for me, and on November seventh wrote me the letter I showed you."
"About my father!"
"Of course I'd no idea who he was then or why he wanted me."
"But what did you do?"
"Nothing, right away. We were fighting hard until the eleventh."
"Of course; but then?"
"I was kept with the battalion. I had more time to myself; but no chance to go to London."
"Or to try to 'get' my father where you were, Mr.
