turned at length to London. Even Mrs. Gilman had gone, leaving no address.
Discouraged, hope almost gone, he went back to Paris. When he reached the Hotel Continental, lo, there was a letter with the address almost obliterated by postmarks—a letter that had followed him for months through the eccentric channels of army mail, and at last had overtaken him here. But the address was still distinguishable, and it was in her handwriting.
He thrilled at the sight of that beloved, bold, and angular but distinguished hand. Not in four years had his eye seen anything that so gladdened him, and with heart beating wildly under his breast of whipcord khaki, he sought the privacy of his room. Once there he tore it open almost violently, yet with a genuine reverence in the touch of his impatient fingers.
"George, George," the letter began, "I am so glad you are in the war—so proud to hear that General Harbord has personally commended you."
Harbord—where had she heard that? It was only six months ago? The letter was five months old. She must have been very close to him to have heard of that within a month in war areas, It gave him an uncanny, superstitious feeling, but it made his heart leap as at the discovery that she had been watching him nearer than he
