He turned over in his bed and lay shivering. He saw in
his mind a broken officer slinking at night in the shadows of the London
streets. He pushed back the flap of a tent and stooped over a man lying
stone-dead in his blood, with an open lancet clinched in his right hand.
And he saw that the face of the broken officer and the face of the dead
surgeon were one--and that one face, the face of Harry Feversham.
CHAPTER II
CAPTAIN TRENCH AND A TELEGRAM
Thirteen years later, and in the same month of June, Harry Feversham's
health was drunk again, but after a quieter fashion and in a smaller
company. The company was gathered in a room high up in a shapeless block
of buildings which frowns like a fortress above Westminster. A stranger
crossing St. James's Park southwards, over the suspension bridge, at
night, who chanced to lift his eyes and see suddenly the tiers of
lighted windows towering above him to so precipitous a height, might be
brought to a stop with the fancy that here in the heart of London was a
mountain and the gnomes at work. Upon the tenth floor of this building
Harry had taken a flat during his year's furlough from his regiment in
India; and it was in the dining room of this flat that the simple
ceremony took place.
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