“Yes—he found out the prison the Boches had put me into. It wasn’t an easy matter either! But these learned professors always hang together, and he has a friend high up in the diplomatic service of Germany, who is, like himself, a sort of book-worm—and he started the search for me and found me. And then—” Here Jack broke off, evidently overcome by emotion. His “rose-lady” caught at his hand and kissed it.
“Yes, Jack!—and then?”
“Well—he found me pretty well done for! But just because the Philosopher, as we call him, had been a boyhood’s friend of his, he got me out of the awful hole I was in, and as I was ill and half starved—”
“Oh, Jack!” and the Sentimentalist gave a little cry of pain.
“Yes!—but it’s all over now,” and Jack kissed her tenderly. “As I say, this first-class old German got me out and took me to his own house, where I was nursed as if I had been his son. And that’s not all. He managed to send me to England—and that’s where the Philosopher comes in!”
Sylvia listened almost breathlessly.
“The Philosopher met me at the boat and took me himself to a private hospital in London—a real A-1. You couldn’t imagine his doing all he did do!”
“Oh!” cried Sylvia. “Then he knew you were alive all the time!”
“He knew I was alive but he didn’t know how soon I should be dead!” Jack replied. “I was very, very ill, dear! I had been wounded as well as starved—and there was plenty of reason for thinking I should never pull round. So the good old chap kept his own counsel. He did not tell my father or any one that I was alive and in England. Nobody knew. If the War Office knew, it didn’t tell! And the Philosopher made up his mind to keep his own counsel.”
“Oh, he might have let us know!” cried Sylvia almost indignantly. “He might have relieved all our sorrow and suspense!”