"It is the uniform, and the dirt perhaps, and the very poor light," said the Frenchman apologetically.
"But you—pardon, monsieur, I mean the other of the three—I did not see him; and monsieur will perhaps understand that I am deeply interested in the rest of the story."
The third man did not answer. A sort of momentary, weird and breathless silence had settled on the thicket, on all around, on the night, save only for the whining of some oncoming thing through the air. Whine ... whine ... whine. The nerves, tautened, loosened, were jangling things. The third man raised his rifle. And somewhere the whining shell burst. And in the thicket a minor crash; a flash, gone on the instant, eye-blinding.
The first man screamed out:
"Christ! What have you done?"
"I think he was done in anyway," said the third man calmly. "It was as well to make sure."
"Gawd!" whimpered the first man.
"Monsieur," said the Frenchman, "I have always heard that you were incomparable. I salute you! As you said, you had not forgotten. We can speak at ease now. The rest of the story—"
The third man laughed.
"Come to me in London—after the war," he said, "and I will tell it to you. And perhaps there will be—other things to talk about."