there, holding it back, keeping his eyes on Graham until he had passed out. ·········· The luncheon hour was long over when Graham reached the Ecu d'Or. Monsieur Michon, who served him, told him that Madame had come in to lunch, but had immediately gone out again, in the car. 'And we shall have a storm this afternoon, Monsieur,' he said. 'I warned Madame not to go too far.'
When Graham had taken some food he went up to their sitting-room. On the table lay a note with 'Dick' written on the envelope. He opened it and read:
I saw Marthe this morning. She has never had a lover. It was only a little permissionnaire who had nowhere to go, on a winter night, and she took him into her room to sleep and next morning he went back to the war and was killed. I think it would be better if you were to see Marthe. Perhaps this afternoon. I shall be gone for a long time.
Yours ever
Jill
Graham read this over several times before its meaning reached him. It was as if he had outstripped time, he was so far ahead of all that Jill had to tell him. He had outstripped time, but Jill's comprehension, Jill's courage and loyalty, followed close on the trail of his flaming course. It was evident to him, as he tried to retrace his own steps and to mark where Jill had come upon them, that he was to spare her nothing.
'But that's all to the good, isn't it,' Graham mut-
