"Mr. Grant," he said.
May Margaret nodded, and they were about to shake hands, when one side of the trench seemed to rise up and smash against their faces, with a roar that stunned them. May Margaret picked herself up at once, wiping the bits of grit out of her eyes. The bombardment appeared to be growing in intensity.
"That was pretty near," said Major Hilton. "You'd better come into my dugout till this blows over."
He led the way into his gloomy little cavern. It was not much of a shelter from a direct hit; but it would protect them from flying splinters at least.
"Mr. Davidson was my friend," said May Margaret at once. "I know his people. I think there must be some mistake about ... about the grave."
"You're not a relative of his, are you?" said Major Hilton. "Had you known him for long?"
"No. Less than a year."
"Well, I don't mind telling you that there was a mistake. We discovered it a few hours after it was made; but we thought it better not to upset his people by giving them further details."
"He was killed, then," May Margaret whispered; and, if the darkness of the dugout had not veiled her face, Major Hilton would not have continued.
"Yes. It was a trench raid. The Boches took a section of our trenches. When we recovered it, we found him. You'd better not tell his people, but I don't mind telling you. It was a pretty bad case."