What has happened to Somers I don’t know.  He was, I learned, soon afterwards discharged from the Army.  He either died or disappeared in the full current of English life.  Perhaps he is with our armies now.  It does not matter.  What matters is my memory of his nervous, sallow, Cockney face, its earnestness, its imprint of veracity, and the damning lucidity of his narrative.

I exacted from my young friends a promise to keep the unsavoury tale to themselves.  No good would arise from a publicity which would stain the honour of the army.  Besides, Boyce had made good.  They have kept their promise like honest gentlemen.  I have never, personally, heard further reference to the affair, and of course I have never mentioned it to anyone.

Now, it is right for me to mention that, for many years, I lived in a horrible state of dubiety with regard to Boyce.  There is no doubt that, after the Vilboek business, he acted in an exemplary manner; there is no doubt that he performed the gallant deed for which he got his mention.  But what about Somers’s story?  I tried to disbelieve it as incredible.  That an English officer—­not a nervous wisp of a man like Somers, but a great, hulking, bull-necked gladiator—­should have been paralysed with fear by one shot coming out of a Boer farm, and thereby demoralised and incapacitated from taking command of a handful of men; that, instead of blowing his brains out, he should have imposed his Mephistophelian compact upon the unhappy Somers and carried off the knavish business successfully—­I could not believe it.  On the other hand, there was the British private.  I have known him all my life, God bless him!  Thank God, it is my privilege to know him now, as he lies knocked to bits, cheerily, in our hospital.  It was inconceivable that out of sheer funk he could abandon a popular officer.  And his was not even a scratch crowd, but a hard-bitten regiment with all sorts of glorious names embroidered on its colours....

I hope you see my difficulty in regard to my Betty’s love affairs.  I had nothing against Boyce, save this ghastly story, which might or might not be true.  Officially, he had made an unholy mess of such a simple military operation as rounding up a Boer farm, and the prize of one dead old Boer had covered him with ridicule; but officially, also, he had retrieved his position by distinguished service.  After all, it was not his fault that his men had run away.  On the other hand...well, you cannot but appreciate the vicious circle of my thoughts, when Betty, in her frank way, came and told me of her engagement to him.  What could I say?  It would have been damnable of me to hint at scandal of years gone by.  I received them both and gave them my paralytic blessing, and Leonard Boyce accepted it with the air of a man who might have been blessed, without a qualm of conscience, by the Third Person of the Trinity in Person.