"Two hours later, at the expiration of his leave, he returned, looking very dusty and dejected, and reported himself. I chaffed him a bit about going ashore, but nothing could I get out of him, and he never volunteered an explanation to any one, as far as I know."
A Lieutenant who had finished playing Bridge and had joined the group of listeners round the fire leaned forward suddenly.
"D'you remember his name, sir?"
"No," said the Captain, "can't say I do. Never can remember names."
"Not a Mr Tyelake by any chance, sir?"
The Captain threw away the end of his cigarette and turned towards the speaker. "Good Lord! Yes, that was it—Tyelake. But look here, Selby,——"
The Lieutenant rose and walked towards the door. "If you'll wait a second, sir, I'll show you why he went ashore." He left the mess and returned with a soiled sheet of paper in his hand; it was creased by much folding and discoloured with age.
The Captain turned it over and examined it. "But this doesn't explain much, does it? And how do you come to know old Tyelake? All this happened twelve—fifteen—nearly twenty years ago, and he was pensioned soon after. And anyhow, what's this got to do with it?"
"That," Selby turned the paper over, "that's the cemetery at Port des Reines, sir,"—and then he told them of a walking tour in the West Country (omitting the reason for it and other superfluous details) some two years before, and of the old man who had since solved, it is to be hoped to his satisfaction, his religious perplexities.
The Assistant Paymaster removed his glasses and blinked excitedly, as was his habit when much moved. "But ... why couldn't he find it when he went ashore? And why didn't——"