My Lady of the Jasmine
The Kid staggered wearily along the road through the blinding rain. Dodging between the endless stream of traffic, which moved slowly in both directions, now stopping for ten minutes, now jolting forward again for a couple of hundred yards, he walked on towards where he thought his battalion was. The last Staff officer he had seen had told him that, as far as he knew, they had pulled out to rest in some dug-outs about four miles farther on – dug-outs which had only recently been taken from the Germans. To start with he had got on to a lorry, but when darkness fell, and the total progression had been one mile, he decided to walk and save time. Occasionally the lights of a car shone in his face, as its infuriated occupant broke every rule of the Somme roads by double banking; that is, trying to pass the vehicles in front. But at last the traffic wore thinner as the road approached the front line, and an hour and a half after he had left the lorry, it stopped altogether, save for pack-mules and squelching men. The rain still sogged down, and – ye gods! the Kid was tired. Away into the night there stretched a path of slippery duckboards, threading its way between shell holes half filled with water. Men loomed up out of the darkness and went past him, slipping and sliding, cursing below their breath. A shower of sparks shot up into the air from a dug-out on his right, and a great lobbing flare away in the distance lit up the scene for a second or two with a ghostly radiance. It showed the Kid the only other near occupant of the reclaimed territory at the moment: a mule, whose four hoofs stuck stiffly out of a shell hole – pointing at him, motionless. With a shudder he moved on along the duck-walk. After all he was but a kid, and he was almighty tired.
For three days he seemed to have been on the run without closing his eyes. First the battalion had gone over the top; then they had worked like slaves consolidating what they’d won; afterwards he had been sent for because of his knowledge of French and German to go back to Divisional Headquarters; and then he had come back to find the battalion had moved. And any who may have tried walking five or six miles by night in heavy rain to an unknown destination along some of the roads east of Albert, will bear out that it is a wearisome performance. When to these facts is added the further information that the age of the boy was only eighteen, it will be conceded that the breaking-point was not far off.
Now I have emphasised the physical condition of the Kid, as he was known to all and sundry, because I think it may have a bearing on the story I am going to relate. I am no expert in “ologies” and other things dealing with so-called spiritualistic revelations. I might even say, in fact, that I am profoundly sceptical of them all, though to say so may reveal my abysmal ignorance. So be it; my thumbs are crossed. This is not a controversial treatise on spiritualism, and all that appertains thereto. One thing, however, I will say – in my ignorance, of course. Until some of the great thinkers of the world have beaten down the jungle of facts beyond our ken, and made a track – be it never so narrow – free from knaves and charlatans, it is ill advised for Mrs Smith or Lady de Smythe to believe that Signor Macaroni – neé Jones – will reveal to them the secrets of the infinite for two pounds. He may; on the other hand, he may not. That the secrets are there, who but a fool can doubt; it is only Signor Macaroni’s power of disinterested revelation that causes my unworthy scepticism.
And so let us come back to the Kid, and the strange thing that happened in a recently captured German dug-out on the night of which I have been writing. It was just as he had decided – rain or no rain – to lie down and sleep in the mud and filth – anywhere, anything, so long as he could sleep – that suddenly out of the darkness ahead he heard the Adjutant’s voice, and knew that he had found the battalion. With almost a sob of thankfulness at the unexpected finish of his worries, he hailed him.
“Hallo! is that you, Kid?” The Adjutant loomed out of the darkness. “We thought you were lost for good. Are you cooked?”
“I’m just about done in,” answered the boy. “Where is B Company?”
“I’ll show you. It’s the hell of a place to find even by day; but you’ve got ‘some’ dug-out. Beer, and tables, and beds; in fact, it’s the first dug-out I’ve seen that in any way resembles the descriptions one reads in the papers.”
“Well, as long as I can get to sleep, old man, I don’t care a damn if it’s the Ritz or a pigsty.” The Kid plucked his foot from a mud-hole, and squelched on behind the Adjutant.
Now much has been written about German dug-outs – their size, their comfort, the revolving bookcases, the four-poster beds. Special mention has frequently been made of cellars full of rare old vintages, and of concreted buttery hatches; of lifts to take stout officers to the ground, and of portable derricks to sling even stouter ones into their scented valises. In fact, such stress has been laid upon these things by people of great knowledge, that I understand an opinion is prevalent amongst some earnest thinkers at home that when a high German officer wishes to surrender he first sends up two dozen of light beer on the lift to placate his capturers, rapidly following himself with a corkscrew. This may or may not be so; personally, I have had no such gratifying experience. But then, personally, I have generally been hard put to it to recognise the dug-outs of reality from the dug-outs of the daily papers. Most of them are much the same as any ordinary, vulgar English dug-out; many are worse; but one or two undoubtedly are very good. In places where the nature of the ground has lent itself to deep work, and the lines have been stagnant for many moons, the Huns have carried out excellent work for the suitable housing of their officers. And it was down the entrance of one of these few and far between abodes that the Kid ultimately staggered, with the blessed feeling in his mind of rest at last. Round a table in the centre sat the other officers of B Company, discussing the remains of an excellent German repast. As he came in they all looked up.
“The lost sheep,” sang out the Captain cheerfully. “Come on, my kidlet, draw up, and put your nose inside some beer.”
“Not a bad place, is it?” chimed in the Doctor, puffing at a large and fat cigar of Hun extraction. “Excellent cellar of rare old ale, cigars of great potency – real genuine Flor de Boche – a picture gallery of – er – a pleasing description, and a bed. What more can man desire?”
“Private MacPherson does not approve, I fear me, of the pictures,” chuckled the senior subaltern. “I heard him muttering dark things about ‘painted Jezebels,’ and ‘yon scarlet women of Babylon.’ ”
“It must be very dreadful for all concerned to go through life with a mind like MacPherson’s.” The Doctor was examining his cigar doubtfully. “There is an obstruction in this. It’s either going to explode with great force in a minute, or else I’m coming to the motto. Hi! you blighter–” he jumped up hurriedly to avoid the stream of beer that shot across the table from the Kid’s overturned glass.
“Idiot child.” The Company Commander roused himself from his gentle doze to contemplate the delinquent. Then he smiled. “Man, he’s asleep; the boy’s beat to a frazzle.”
“Aye, you’re right. Tim, come off that bed; the Kid is fair cooked. Wake up, infant.” The Doctor shook him by the shoulder. “Wake up. Take off your boots, and then get down to it on the bed.”
The Kid sat up blinking. “I’m very sorry,” he said after a moment. “Did I upset the beer?”
“You did – all over me,” laughed the Doctor. “Get your boots off and turn in.”
“I’m so cursed sleepy.” The Kid was removing his sodden puttees. “I’ve walked, and walked, and I’m just about–” He straightened himself in his chair, and as he did so the words died away on his lips. With a peculiar fixed look he stared past the Doctor into the corner of the dug-out. “My God!” he whispered at last, “what are you doing here?”
A sudden silence settled on the mess, and instinctively everybody, including the Doctor, glanced towards the corner. Then the Doctor turned once more to the boy, and his glance was the glance of his profession.
“What’s the matter, Kid?” His tone was abrupt, even to curtness. “Did you think you saw something?”
“I thought – I thought–” The boy passed his hand over his forehead. “I’m sorry – I must have been dreaming. It’s gone now. I suppose I’m tired.” But his eyes still searched the dug-out fearfully.
“What did you think you saw?” asked the Doctor shortly.
“I thought I saw–” Once again he stopped; then he laughed a little shakily. “Oh! it doesn’t matter what I thought I saw. Damn it! I’m tired; let me turn in.”
The Doctor’s eye met the Company Commander’s over the table, and he shrugged his shoulders slightly. “Dead beat.” His lips framed the words, and he returned to the contemplation of his cigar, which was not doing all that a well-trained cigar should.
The Kid stood up and glanced round the mess at his brother officers a little shamefacedly; only to find them engrossed – a trifle ostentatiously – in their own business. “I’m sorry, you fellows,” he blurted out suddenly. “Forgive me for being such a fool; I suppose I’m a bit tired.”
The Doctor took him firmly by the arm, and led him towards the bed. “Look here, old soul,” he remarked, “if you wish to avoid the wrath of my displeasure, you will cease talking and go to bed. Everyone knows what it is to be weary; and there’s only one cure – sleep.”
The Kid laughed and threw himself on the bed. “Jove!” he muttered sleepily; “then it’s a pleasant medicine, Doctor dear.” He pulled a blanket over his shoulders; his head touched the pillow; his eyes closed; and before the Doctor had resumed his seat the Kid was asleep.
It seemed only a minute afterwards that he was awake again, staring into the dim-lit dug-out with every sense alert. He was conscious first of a faint elusive scent – a scent which was new to him. His mind wandered to the scents he knew – Chaminade, Mystérieuse, Trèfle Incarnat – but this was different. Delicate, sensuous, with the slightest suggestion of jasmine about it, it seemed to permeate every part of him. Vaguely expectant, he waited for something that he knew must happen. What it would be, he had no idea; he felt like a man waiting for the curtain to rise on a first night, when the music of the overture is dying away to a finish. He experienced no fear: merely an overwhelming curiosity to witness the drama, and to confirm his certainty about the owner of the scent. In his mind there was no doubt as to who she was. It was the girl he had seen in the corner as he was taking off his puttees: the girl who had looked at him with eyes that held the sadness of the world and its despair in them; the girl who had vanished so quickly. Her disappearance did not strike him as peculiar; she would explain when she came. And so the Kid waited for the drop-scene to lift.
It struck him as he glanced round the dug-out that the furniture had been moved. The table seemed nearer the wall; the chairs were differently arranged. Instead of the remnants of a finished meal, papers arranged in neat piles met his eye. The place looked more like an office than a mess. Suddenly he stiffened into attention; steps were coming down the entrance to the dug-out. A man came in, and with a gasp the Kid recognised a German soldier. He strove to shout – to warn his brother officers who he knew were peacefully sleeping in valises on the floor; but no sound came. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth; he could only watch, rigid and motionless.
The German moved to the hanging lamp, and turned it up till a bright light flooded the dug-out.
“Now,” the Kid’s brain was racing, “he must see them. My God! they must have got back during the night.”
But no. The German servant moved towards the cupboard which contained the food, brushing so close to the bed that the Kid could have touched him with ease as he passed. Very cautiously he raised his head as he saw the man, his back turned, fumbling on the shelves, and looked round the room. Then with the icy hand of terror clutching at his heart he lay back again. The room was empty; his brother officers had gone – murdered probably – and with him it could only be a question of moments before he too was discovered.
For an instant he had a wild idea of hurling himself upon the German: of taking him unawares – of trying to escape. Then the soldier turned: the opportunity had passed, and once again the silent spectator on the bed lay rigid. The servant, stolid and unemotional, moved heavily about the dug-out, laying the table for a meal. Once it seemed to the Kid that he looked straight at him; he could have sworn that he must have been seen; and yet – apparently not. The man gave no sign, and it occurred to the Kid that perhaps he was lying in the shadow. Stealthily he wormed himself even nearer to the wall: impelled by the instinct of self-preservation that he would put off to the last possible moment the inevitable discovery. And hardly had he edged himself in against the wall, when with a sinking heart he heard voices outside; voices which spoke in German. With only the servant to tackle, somehow he had not felt so hopeless; now he knew the end had come.
Two officers entered, wiping the perspiration from their foreheads. One from his badges of rank he recognised as a Colonel – the other was a Lieutenant; and the discussion was – as far as their difference of rank allowed – obviously of an acrimonious nature. The Kid listened intently; thanking Heaven, not for the first time in his life, that someone with a grain of common sense had had him taught French and German by a method other than the Public School one. The predilection of his aunt’s gardener for pens, ink, and paper would not have helped him much in that conversation.
“Beer, you fool,” grunted the Colonel to the stolid servant. “Then, go.”
Impatiently he waited till the orderly’s footsteps died away, and then he turned savagely on the other officer.
“I tell you, Lieutenant Rutter, we must know,” he snarled. “A girl – what is a girl, when big issues are at stake? There are many more girls, Lieutenant Rutter; many more girls. Be very careful lest not only does this one die, but you also meet with an accident. Dead men cannot make love to those other girls.” He banged his fist on the table and glared at the Lieutenant, who was staring moodily in front of him.
“I know that, Excellency,” he returned after a moment. “But there is a proverb about bringing a horse to the water and not being able to make him drink.”
“Bah! There are methods, my friend, of drowning the brute with water, if it won’t drink willingly. And those methods will have to be adopted in this case.”
“They are doubtless effective in killing the horse; but they will not lead us very much farther in our inquiries.”
“Which is the reason why I have allowed you so much rope. I know as well as you do that willing information is worth ten times as much as when it is forced. You have made love to the girl, you have been playing the fool for six weeks with her, and we are no nearer than when we started.” He sneered openly. “Since when have we become so dilatory, my friend? You seem to have lost your form with the fair sex.”
The Lieutenant flushed, and his fist clenched. “Don’t mention those others. I love this girl.”
“No doubt thinking of marriage?” The sneer was even more in evidence.
“Yes, Excellency, I am thinking of marriage.” His voice was ominously quiet.
“I am afraid, Lieutenant Rutter, it will remain in the beautiful and nebulous realms of thought, unless–” He paused and drained his beer ostentatiously, though all the while his eyes never left his companion’s face.
“Unless,” repeated the Lieutenant drearily, “she agrees to do some charming and honourable spying work for us on the other side of the lines.”
“You speak very strangely, Lieutenant Rutter.” The little pig eyes of the senior officer glinted menacingly. “Have a care.”
“Pardon, Excellency. For the moment I forgot.” With a weary gesture he got up. “I will ask her this morning.” He looked at his watch. “She should be here very soon.”
“Then I will await the result of your interview through here.” The Colonel moved to a door half concealed by a curtain. “You shall have your turtle dove, Rutter, in peace and quiet.” He chuckled harshly. “You know what we want?”
“By heart, Excellency.”
“And you remember that her brother the Comte is not really dead. For our purposes he is a prisoner.”
“I am not likely to forget; but I warn you, Excellency, I have but little hope of succeeding.”
The Colonel’s jaw shut like a vice. “Then God help you both, my friend; God help you both.” His voice was soft, but horribly menacing; and as the curtain dropped behind him, the Kid, who had been listening spellbound, understood for the first time the type of man who represented Prussian militarism.
Instinctively his heart warmed towards the Lieutenant, who with a weary gesture of despair was resting his head on his arms. He was young, clean cut, almost an Englishman to look at, save for his close-cropped bristling hair; and, moreover, he was up against it. All the Kid’s sporting instincts rose within him. Boche or no Boche this was not the type of swine who launched gas and liquid fire on a horror-struck world. Forgetful of everything he was on the point of going over to him and telling him to stick it out, when his eyes rested on the entrance. And there was the girl: the girl he had seen in the corner, the girl of the jasmine scent. For a while she stood watching the bowed figure at the table, and then she tip-toed across to him and laid her hand on his head.
With a quick start he looked up, and into his face there came the light of all the ages, the light of the man for the woman he loves.
“Marie,” he whispered hoarsely. “Marie – que je t’adore.” He caught her to him and kissed her on the lips. Then, with a bitter groan, he pushed her away and sat down again.
“Fritz, what is it?” she cried in wondering tones. “You sent for me, my dear. Why? I came; but it is not right for me to come to you here – in your dug-out.”
“I was ordered to send for you, my Marie.” His French was pure if guttural.
“Ordered!” An adorable look of amazement came on her face. “And you liked not this order, my Fritz. But why? It is not right for me to be here, I know; but now that I have come, it is very nice, mon ami. Why do you look so glum?”
For a while he did not reply, but paced the dug-out with long, uneven steps. And the Kid, watching his lady of the jasmine, saw her bite her lips, as a look of puzzled fear came into her great round eyes. At last the man paused in front of her and took her roughly by the arms, so that she cried out.
“You love me, Marie?” he demanded hoarsely. “You love me enough to marry me when this accursed war is over?” His voice sank over the last few words, and he glanced, half fearfully, at the curtained door.
“But of course, my Fritz,” she answered softly. “You have been good to me, and you are different to these others. Mon Dieu! they frighten me – those harsh, brutal men; but they have been good to me and the little mother for your sake. It is terrible, I suppose – a French girl and a German officer; but the little god Love, mon ami, he laughs at the great god Mars – sometimes. Poor little me – I cannot help myself.” She laughed adorably, and the Kid laughed with her. She seemed to him like the spirit of the Spring, when the bluebells are flowering and the world is young. But on the German’s face there was no answering smile. It was set and stern, and imprinted with a look of such utter hopelessness that the Kid, who saw it over the girl’s shoulder, almost cried out with the pain of it.
“Do you love me enough, Marie,” he went on at length, “to do a big thing for me – a very big thing?”
“That depends on what it is.” She spoke gaily, but the Kid could see her body stiffen slightly. “I’m no good at big things.”
“Will you go to Paris for me?” His voice was dull and jerky.
“Paris!” She gazed at him in amazement. “But how, and why?”
“It will be easy to get you there.” He seized on the part of her question which postponed for a few seconds the hideous thing he was to ask her. “We can arrange all that quite easily. You see–” He rambled on with the method of making plans for the journey, until he caught her eyes, and the look in them made his faltering words die away to a dreadful silence.
“And why do you want me to go to Paris, Fritz?” Her voice was hardly above a whisper.
Twice he essayed to speak; twice he failed to do more than falter her name. Then with a gasping cry he took her in his arms and kissed her passionately. “They shan’t,” he muttered; “by God! they shan’t.” And it was as the Kid watched the scene, with parted lips and quickened breath, that the curtain moved aside, and he saw the Colonel, like an evil spirit, regarding the pair with cold malevolence.
“Delightful!” he remarked after a few moments of cynical observation; “delightful! Lieutenant Rutter, you are to be congratulated. Mademoiselle – you are charming; all that my young friend has said, and more.”
He moved forward and stood by the table, while Marie – her face as white as death – clung to her lover. “Who is he, Fritz, this ugly old man?” she whispered, terrified.
“Permit me to introduce to you…” Fritz forced the words from his dry lips, only to stop at the upraised hand of the other.
“My name, dear young lady, is immaterial,” he remarked genially. “Just an ugly old man, who has had no time to bask in the sunshine of the smiles of your charming sex.” He sat down and lit a cigar. “So you are going to become a German’s wife! Ah! Fritz, my boy, you’re a lucky dog! You’ll have to guard your Marie carefully from the rest of the garrison, when we have finally won and the war is over.” He gave a grating laugh, and blew out a cloud of smoke.
“What do you want of me?” asked Marie, in a terrified whisper, looking at him like a bird at a snake.
“A little service, my dear young Fräulein to be – a little service to the Fatherland. You must not forget that Germany is now your country in spirit, if not in actual truth. You are pledged to her just as you are pledged to your Fritz – in fact, he being an officer, the two are one and the same thing.” He smiled again, and waved his cigar gently in the air. “And not only will your service benefit the country that you have chosen as your own, but it will benefit you, because it will bring the end of the war, and with it your marriage, closer.”
He paused to let the words sink in, but she still watched him fascinated.
“One thing more.” His eyes gleamed dully through the haze of smoke as he fixed them on her. “Unless this little service is fulfilled, though it won’t make any difference to the ultimate result as far as Germany is concerned, it will make a very considerable difference as far as you and – er – Fritz are concerned.”
“What do you mean?” The girl hardly breathed the words.
“I mean there will be no marriage. Painful – but true.”
The Kid watched the young officer’s arm tighten convulsively round her waist – and began to see red. Then the harsh guttural voice continued. “Well, now, without wasting any more time, let us come to the point. I had proposed to let Lieutenant Rutter explain things to you; but – er – from one or two things I overheard, it struck me he might not make them clear.” The beady eyes came slowly round to the Lieutenant. “That is why I interrupted.” Once again he stared at the trembling girl. “To be brief, Mademoiselle Marie, we anticipate an attack – a big attack – by the English. We have good information that it is coming in this neighbourhood.”
The Kid pricked up his ears; what the devil was the man talking about? “We have every reason to hope that Ovillers, Fricourt, Thiepval are impregnable; at the same time – in war – one never leaves things to chance.” The Kid’s astonishment turned to stupefaction; he himself had been in the storming of Ovillers. “And the chance,” continued the imperturbable voice, “in this matter is the probable action of the French – your charming compatriots – er – compatriots that were, Fräulein. We anticipate this offensive in about a month or six weeks; and the matter on which we require all the confirmation we can is whether the French, after their hideous losses at Verdun, can play any important part in this operation of the enemy. That is where you can help us.”
For a moment there was dead silence, and then the girl turned her stricken face to the man beside her. “Dear God!” she muttered, “is this why you made love to me? To make me a spy?”
“Marie – no, on my honour; I swear it!” Forgetful of the man sitting at the table Fritz stretched out his hand in an agony of supplication.
“Lieutenant Rutter.” With a snarl the Colonel stood up. “You forget yourself. I am speaking. A truce to this fooling. Mademoiselle” – he turned again on the girl – “we have other things to do beside babble of love. Call it spying if you will, but we want information, and you can help us to get it – must help us to get it.”
“And what if I refuse?” Superbly she confronted him; her voice had come back; her head was thrown up.
“In the first place you will not marry Lieutenant Rutter; and in the second place – have you heard that the Comte de St Jean was taken prisoner at Verdun?”
“Philippe. Oh, monsieur, where is he?” The girl threw herself on her knees before him. “I implore you – he is my only brother.”
“Indeed. Well, if you desire to see him again you will carry out my suggestion. Otherwise–” he paused significantly.
“Oh, you could not! You could not be so cruel, so vile as to harm him if he is a prisoner. It would break my mother’s heart.”
“Mademoiselle, there is nothing which I would scruple to do – nothing – if by so doing I advanced the glorious cause of our Fatherland.” The man’s small eyes gleamed with the fire of a fanatic; revolting though he was, yet there was an element of grandeur about him. Even the Kid, watching silently from the bed, felt conscious of the power which seemed to spring from him as he stood there, squat and repulsive, with the lovely French girl kneeling at his feet. He saw her throw her arms around his knees, and turn up her face to his in an agony of pleading; and then of a sudden came the tragedy.
Discipline or no discipline, a man is a man, and Fritz Rutter had reached the breaking-point. Perhaps it was the sight of the woman he loved kneeling at the feet of one of the grossest sensualists in Europe, perhaps – But who knows?
“Marie,” he cried hoarsely, “it’s not true. Philippe is dead; they cannot hurt him now. Get up, my dear, get up.” With folded arms he faced the other man as the girl staggered to her feet. Heedless of the blazing passion on the Colonel’s face, she crept to Fritz and hid her face against his chest. And as she stood there she heard the voice of her tormentor, thick and twisted with hate.
“For that, Lieutenant Rutter, I will have you disgraced. And then I will look after your Marie. Orderly!” His voice rose to a shout as he strode to the door.
“Goodbye, my love.” Fritz strained her to him, and the Kid saw her kiss him once on the lips. Then she disengaged herself from his arms, and walked steadily to where the Colonel still shouted up the entrance. Outside there was the sound of many footsteps, and the girl paused just behind the cursing maniac in the door.
“So you will look after me, will you, monsieur?” Her voice rose clear above the noise, and the man turned round, his malignant face quivering. The Kid watched it fascinated, and suddenly he saw it change. “I think not,” went on the same clear voice; and the guttural cry of fear rang out simultaneously with the sharp crack of a revolver.
“My God!” Rutter stood watching the crumpling figure as it slipped to the ground in front of the girl; and then with a great cry he sprang forward. And with that cry, which seemed to ring through his brain, there came the power of movement to the Kid. He hurled himself off the bed towards the girl – his girl – his lady of the jasmine. But he was too late. The second shot was even truer than the first, and as her head hit the floor she was dead.
Regardless of Rutter the Kid knelt down beside her, and as he did so, he got it – in the face.
“What the blazes are you doing?” roared an infuriated voice. “Damn you! you young fool – you’ve nearly killed me.”
Stupefied the boy looked around. The same dug-out; the same officers of B Company; the same beer bottles; but where was the lady of the jasmine? Where was the man who lay dead in the doorway? Where was Rutter?
He blinked foolishly, and looked round to find the lamp still burning and his brother officers roaring with laughter. All, that is, except the Doctor on whose stomach he had apparently landed.
But the Kid was not to be put off by laughter. “I tell you it happened in this very dug-out,” he cried excitedly. “She killed the swine in the doorway there, and then she killed herself. This is where she fell, Doc, just where you’re lying, and her head hit the wall there. Look, there’s a board there, nailed over the wall – where her head went. Don’t laugh, you fool! don’t laugh – it happened. I dreamed it. I know that now; but it happened for all that – before the big advance. I tell you she had light golden hair – ah! look.” The Doctor had prised off the board, and there on the wall an ominous red stain showed dull in the candlelight. Slowly the Doctor bent down and picked up something with his fingers. Getting up he laid it on the table. And when the officers of B Company had looked at it, the laughter ceased. It was a little wisp of light golden hair – and the end was thick and clotted.
“Tomorrow, Kid, you can tell us the yarn,” said the Doctor quietly. “Just now you’re going to have a quarter-grain of sleep dope and go to bed again.”
The following evening the officers of B Company, less the Kid, who was out, sat round the table and talked.
“What do you make of it, Doc?” asked the Company Commander. “Do you really think there is anything in the Kid’s yarn? I mean, we know he dreamed it – but do you think it’s true? I suppose that tired as he was he would be in a receptive mood for his imagination to run riot.”
For a long while the Doctor puffed stolidly at his pipe without answering. Then he leaned forward and put his hand in his pocket.
“Imagination, you say. Do you call that imagination?” He produced the lock of hair from a matchbox. “Further, do you call that imagination? I found it under the pillow this morning.” On the table beside the matchbox he placed a small pocket- handkerchief, and from it there came the faint, elusive scent of jasmine. “And last of all, do you call that imagination? I found it in one of the books yonder.” He placed an old envelope in front of him, and the others crowded round. It was addressed to Ober-Lieutenant Fritz Rutter.