Telephoning for his car to meet him, he left the office and caught an early afternoon train home. He drove straight to the Byrdsnest and found Mary alone in the sitting room.
She rose swiftly and pressed his hand:
“Oh, my dear friend,” she murmured, “isn't it terrible?”
He nodded. “Sit down, Mary, my dear girl.” He spoke very quietly, unconsciously calling her by name for the first time. “I have something to tell you.”
She turned white.
“No,” he said quickly, “he isn't dead.”
She sat down, trembling.
“I have a letter from Adolph Jensen. They are both wounded, and in the American Hospital in Paris. The Foreign Legion has suffered heavily. Jensen is convalescent, and returns to the front. He was beside your husband in the trench. It was a shell. Byrd was hit in the back. My dear child—” he stopped for a moment. “Mary—”
“Go on,” she whispered through stiff lips.
“He is paralyzed, my dear, from the hips down.”