With the startled whisper the stiffening departed from Jerry's knees. She sank back in her chair. The stranger wheeled with military precision then, in a startled voice laden with pride and affection, cried:
"Comment ça va, mon Lieutenant!"
"Carl! Oh boy, Carl, where did you come from?"
The undertone in Courtlandt's voice brought the tears stinging to Jerry's eyes. Steve gripped the stranger's hand as though he would never let it go. The two patted one another's shoulders with their free hands and beamed with suspiciously bright eyes.
"What good wind blew you here, Beechy?" Steve demanded. "Jerry, this is Carl Beechy, who was my top sergeant in France. That scar he wears was intended for me, and—and—he took it. Carl, this is my—this is Mrs. Courtlandt."
"Mrs. Courtlandt! Your wife, Lieutenant? C'est drôle, ça! I—I—thought——" The girl had never seen such contrition as clouded Beechy's eyes as they met hers. There was not a trace of recklessness in them now; they were frankly pleading. She hesitated for a moment, then smiled.
"I'm glad that you came to the Double O, Sergeant Beechy. It was fortunate that you arrived when you did, Steve. Mr. Beechy was just going. You—you might not have recognized him had you met him on the road." Her lips twitched traitorously as her glance flashed to the ink-well on the desk.
Beechy's eyes sent her a wireless of passionate gratitude and admiration. Then he turned to Courtlandt.
"You are the last person I expected to see here, Lieutenant."
"Weren't you looking for me, Carl? I told you——"