“I must have got a note of it somewhere. I say, what’s all this about? Do you want to get hold of him?”
“I do. He’s wanted, over a question of damage in billets. They’ve sent me to find him out.”
“Then I’m damned if I’ll tell you. Because he was a topping chap!” rejoined Andrews, laughing.
“You’d better tell me, I think. The matter has gone rather high up, and it might be awkward if I had to report that the information was refused.”
“Lord, you aren’t going to make a Court of Inquiry affair of it, are you?”
“It may come to that, and they’ve got hold of your name.”
“Gee whizz! I don’t like landing the chap. I may not have got any particulars of him, now, my things have been so messed about.”
“Well, look and see!”
“All right.”
Andrews fumbled out from the night-table beside his bed, the usual bedside collection. Letters in female handwriting, some young, some old—from one or more sweethearts and a mother, thought Dormer. Paper-covered novels. The sort (English) that didn’t make you think. The sort (French) that make you feel, if you were clever at the language. Cigarettes, bills. One or two letters from brother officers.