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.