“I thought I might bring him along here and let the Marigolds look after him for a week or two.”

“Indeed,” said I.  “I admire your airy ways.”

“I know you do,” she replied, “and that’s why I’ve brought him.”

“Is that the fellow?”

She laughed.  “You’re right first time.  How did you guess?” She scrambled to her feet.  “I’ll fetch him in.”

She fetched him in, a haggard, broad-shouldered man with a back like a sloping plank of wood.  He wore corporal’s stripes.  He saluted and stood at rigid attention.

“This is Tufton,” said Betty.

I despatched her in search of Marigold.  To Tufton I said, regarding him with what, without vanity, I may term an expert eye: 

“You’re an old soldier.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Guards?”

His eyes brightened.  “Yes, sir.  Seven years in the Grenadiers.  Then two years out.  Rejoined on outbreak of war, sir.”

I rubbed my hands together in satisfaction.  “I’m an old soldier too,” said I

“So Sister told me, sir.”

A delicate shade in the man’s tone and manner caught at my heart.  Perhaps it was the remotest fraction of a glance at my rug-covered legs, the pleased recognition of my recognition, ... perhaps some queer freemasonry of the old Army.

“You seem to be in trouble, boy,” said I.  “Tell me all about it and I’ll do what I can to help you.”

So he told his story.  After his discharge from the Army he had looked about for a job and found one at the mills in Wellingsford, where he had met the woman, a mill-hand, older than himself, whom he had married.  She had been a bit extravagant and fond of her glass, but when he left her to rejoin the regiment, he had had no anxieties.  She did not write often, not being very well educated and finding difficult the composition of letters.  A machine gun bullet had gone through his chest, just missing his lung.  He had been two months in hospital.  He had written to her announcing his arrival.  She had not met him at the station.  He had tramped home with his kit-bag on his back—­and the cracked head was his reception.  He supposed she had had a lot of easy money and had given way to temptation—­and

“And what’s a man to do, sir?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Corporal,” said I.  “It’s damned hard lines on you.  But, at any rate, you can look upon this as your home for as long as you like to stay.”

“Thank you kindly, sir,” said he.

I turned and beckoned to Betty and Marigold, who had been hovering out of earshot by the house door.  They approached.

“I want to have a word with Marigold,” I said.

Tufton saluted and went off with Betty.  Sergeant Marigold stood stiff as a ramrod on the spot which Tufton had occupied.

“I suppose Mrs. Connor,” said I, “has told you all about this poor chap?”

“Yes, sir,” said Marigold.