After a miserable drive through February rain and slush, I reached my destination in Belton Square, a large mansion, presumably equipped by its owner as a hospital for officers, and given over to the nation.  A telephone message had prepared the authorities for my arrival.  Marigold, preceded by the Sister in charge, carried me across a tesselated hall and began to ascend the broad staircase.

I uttered a little gasp and looked around me, for in a flash I realised where I was.  Twenty years ago I had danced in this house.  I had danced here with my wife before we were married.  On the half landing we had sat out together.  It was the town house of the late Lord Madelow, with whose wife I shared the acquaintance of a couple of hundred young dancing men inscribed on her party list.  Both were dead long since.  To whom the house belonged now I did not know.  But I recognised pictures and statuary and a conservatory with palms.  And the place shimmered with brilliant ghosts and was haunted by hot perfumes and by the echo of human voices and by elfin music.  And the cripple forgot that he was being carried up the stairs in the grip of the old soldier.  He was mounting them with heart beating high and the presence of a beloved hand on his arm. ...  You see, it was all so sudden.  It took my breath away and sent my mind whirling back over twenty years.

It was like awaking from a dream to find a door flung open in front of me and to hear the Sister announce my name.  I was on the threshold not of a ward, but of a well-appointed private room fairly high up and facing the square, for the first thing I saw was the tops of the leafless trees through the windows.  Then I was conscious of a cheery fire.  The last thing I took in was the bed running at right angles to door and window, and Leonard Boyce lying in it with bandages about his face.  For the dazed second or two he seemed to be Reggie Dacre over again.  But he had thrown back the bedclothes and his broad chest and great arms were free.  His pleasant voice rang out at once.

“Hallo!  Hallo!  You are a good Samaritan.  Is that you, Marigold?  There’s a comfortable chair by the bedside for Major Meredyth.”

He seemed remarkably strong and hearty; far from any danger of death.  Stubs of cigarettes were lying in an ash-tray on the bed.  In a moment or two they settled me down and left me alone with him.

As soon as he heard the click of the door he said: 

“I’ve done more than I set out to do.  You remember our conversation.  I said I should either get the V.C. or never see you again.  I’ve managed both.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I shall never see you or anybody else again, or a dog or a cat, or a tree or a flower.”

Then, for the first time the dreadful truth broke upon me.

“Good Heavens!” I cried.  “Your eyes—?”

“Done in.  Blind.  It’s a bit ironical, isn’t it?” He laughed bitterly.