Red Tabs thought for a minute and then went on.

“No one may catalogue,” he said, “the crimes that Clubfoot committed, the infamies he had to his account.  Not even the Kaiser himself, I dare say, knows the manner in which his orders to this black-guard were executed—­orders rapped out often enough, I swear, in a fit of petulance, a gust of passion, and forgotten the next moment in the excitement of some fresh sensation.

“I know a little of Clubfoot’s record, of innocent lives wrecked, of careers ruined, of sudden disappearances, of violent deaths.  When you and your brother put it across der Stelze, Okewood, you settled a long outstanding account we had against him, but you also rendered his fellow-Huns a signal service.”

I thought of the comments I had heard on Clubfoot among the customers at Haase’s, and I felt that Red Tabs had hit the right nail on the head again.

“By the way?” said Red Tabs, as I rose to go, “would you care to see Clubfoot’s epitaph?  I kept it for you.”  He handed me a German newspaper—­the Berliner Tageblatt, I think it was—­with a paragraph marked in red pencil.  I read: 

“We regret to report the sudden death from apoplexy of Dr. Adolf Grundt, an inspector of secondary schools.  The deceased was closely connected for many years with a number of charitable institutions enjoying the patronage of the Emperor.  His Majesty frequently consulted Dr. Grundt regarding the distribution of the sums allocated annually from the Privy purse for benevolent objects.”

“Pretty fair specimen of Prussian cynicism?” laughed Red Tabs.  But I held my head ... the game was too deep for me.

* * * * *

Every week a hamper of good things is dispatched to 3143 Sapper Ebenezer Maggs, British Prisoner of War, Gefangenen-Lager, Friedrichsfeld bei Wesel.  I have been in communication with his people, and since his flight from the camp they have not had a line from him.  They will let me know at once if they hear, but I am restless and anxious about him.

I dare not write lest I compromise him:  I dare not make official enquiry as to his safety for the same reason.  If he survived those shots in the dark, he is certainly undergoing punishment, and in that case he would be deprived of the privilege of writing or receiving letters....

But the weeks slip by and no message comes to me from Chewton Mendip.  Almost daily I wonder if the gallant lad survived that night to return to the misery of the starvation camp, or whether, out of the darkness of the forest, his brave soul soared free, achieving its final release from the sufferings of this world....  Poor Sapper Maggs!

Francis and Monica are honeymooning on the Riviera.  Gerry, I am sure, would have refused to attend the wedding, only he wasn’t asked.  Francis is getting a billet on the Intelligence out in France when his leave is up.

I have got my step, antedated back to the day I went into Germany.  Francis has been told that something is coming to him and me in the New Year’s Honours.