Within a fortnight of having reached his Mecca--the Front, he was back in England in the--to him--amazing guise of wounded hero.

But he had sent for none of his old friends for he was still ashamed.

After the Armistice he had rushed through England on his way to Australia, putting in a few days with a Colonel and Mrs.Crofton, with whom he had been thrown in Egypt.

More to do his host a kindness than for any other reason, Radmore had sent his godson, Timothy Tosswill, a pedigree puppy, from the queer little Essex manor-house where the Croftons were then making a rather futile attempt to increase their slender means by breeding terriers.
The days had slipped by there very pleasantly, for Radmore liked his taciturn host, and Mrs.Crofton was very pretty--an agreeable playfellow for a rich and lonely man.

So it was that when it came to the point he had not cared to look up any of the people associated with his early youth.
But now he was going to see them--almost had he forced himself upon them.
And the thought of going home to Old Place shook and stirred him to the heart.
To-day he felt quite queerly at a loose end.