Quill's Window

by George Barr McCutcheon

Then she fled from the room. Nancy Strong put her hand over her eyes and sighed.

"I wish David were here," she said to herself. "If he were only here today."

During dinner that evening Alix was strangely repressed. It was plain to Mrs. Strong that she was inwardly agitated. After they left the table she became visibly nervous. She was "fidgety," to speak the thought of her perplexed companion. Time and again she started and appeared to be listening intently, and always there was a queer little expression in her eyes as of expectancy. Once or twice Mrs. Strong surprised a flash of anxiety,—aye, even fear,—in them.

"You haven't read your letters yet, Alix," she said at last, seeking for some means to divert the girl's thoughts. "There is quite a pile of them there on the table."

"I don't feel like reading letters tonight," said Alix. "They can wait till tomorrow." She arose, however, and hurriedly ran through the pile. "I wrote to David before dinner, Aunt Nancy," she said suddenly. "A long letter about Sergeant's death. I wanted him to know how miserably I feel about it."

"Bless your heart, he'll know that without your telling him, child. I am glad you wrote to him, however."

Alix came to a letter addressed in an unfamiliar hand,—a bold, masculine scrawl. The postmark was Chicago. She tore it open. It began with "Dear Alix." She quickly turned to the last page. It was signed "Addison Blythe." A "thank you" letter, of course.

Her back was to Mrs. Strong as she stood beside the table, bending slightly forward to get the full light from the library lamp. She read the letter through to the end; then she walked over to the fireplace and threw it into the flames. Her face had lost every vestige of colour:

DEAR ALIX: [it began] You will no doubt throw this letter into the fire the instant you have finished reading it, and you will hate me for having written it. Nevertheless, I am doing so because I think it is my duty. I offer no apology. I only ask you to believe that my intentions are good. It is best to come straight to the point. I have talked it all over with Mary and she approves of this letter. What I am about to say still requires official confirmation. I do not speak with authority, you must understand. I am merely giving you certain bits of information I have obtained from men who were in France in 1915 and 1916. It rests with you to believe or disbelieve. In any case, if you are wise, you will at least take the trouble to investigate. I am at your service. If I can help you in any way, please call upon me. If you desire it, I will provide you with the names of at least three men who were in Ambulance, all of whom have answered my letters of inquiry. One of these men met Courtney Thane in Paris in November, 1915. He was living at the Hotel Chatham with his mother. She had a husband up at the front, fighting with the French. This husband was a count or something of the sort and a good many years her junior. My informant writes me that young Thane, who drank a great deal and talked quite freely of family affairs, told him that his mother had married this young Frenchman a few months before the war broke out and went to Paris to live with him. He went so far as to say that the Frenchman married her for her money and he hoped the Germans would make a widow of her again before it was too late. According to this chap, Thane had also been in Paris since the beginning of the war. He spent money like a drunken sailor and touched nothing but the high spots. The second or third time he met him, Thane said he would like to get into the Ambulance. His mother, however, was bitterly opposed to his joining up. The last time he saw him, he had on an Ambulance uniform and was as drunk as a lord in one of the cafes. My friend had it straight from fellows out at Neuilly that Thane hadn't worn the uniform a week before it was taken away from him and he was kicked out of the service in disgrace.

One of the other chaps has written me, saying that he was at the base hospital when Thane was stripped of his uniform. He was not a witness to this, but he heard other fellows and the nurses talking about it. Not only was his uniform taken away, but he was ordered to get out of Paris at once. They heard afterward that he went to Madrid with his mother. He was never at Pont-a-Mousson. It is obvious that he was not in the Vosges sector, in view of the fact that he lasted less than a week in the Ambulance, and did a vast amount of carousing in a uniform that I revere.