Yet we had got no farther than the hall before we knew that tragedy had not ended with the Armistice.
Colonel Lavington met us and spoke to Brand.
“A bad thing has happened. Young Clatworthy has shot himself ... upstairs in his room.”
“No!”
Brand started back as if he had been hit. He had been fond of Clatworthy, as he was of all boys, and they had been together for many months. It was to Brand that Clatworthy wrote his last strange note, and the Colonel gave it to him then, in the hall.
I saw it afterwards, written in a big scrawl—a few lines which now I copy out:
“Dear old Brand,
It’s the end of the adventure. Somehow I funk Peace. I don’t see how I can go back to Wimbledon as if nothing had happened to me. None of us are the same as when we left, and I’m quite different. I’m going over to the pals on the other side. They will understand. Cheerio!
Cyril Clatworthy.”
“I was playing my flute when I heard the shot,” said the Colonel.
Brand put the letter in his pocket, and made only one comment.