"How long has he lain there in this forest?"
"A year—to judge. Also the last entry in his diary bears this out. They got him through the head, and his belt gave way or was not fastened.—Anyway he came down stone dead and quite clear of his machine. His name was Blint—Sir W. Blint, Bart…. Lie back on the moss and let your bruised feet hang in the pool…. Here—this way—rest that yellow head of yours against my knees. … Are you snug?"
"Yes."
"Hold out your hands. These were his trinkets."
The girl cupped her hands to receive the rings, watch, the gold whistle in its little gem-set chains, and the sleigh-bell on its bracelet.
She examined them one by one in silence while McKay ran through the pages of the notebook—discoloured pages all warped and stained in their leather binding but written in pencil with print-like distinction.
"Sir W. Blint," murmured McKay, still busy with the notebook. "Can't find what W. stood for."
"That's all there is—just his name and military rank as an aviator:
I left the disk where it hung."
The girl placed the trinkets on the moss beside her and looked up into McKay's face.
Both knew they were thinking of the same thing. They wore no disks.
Would anybody do for them what McKay had done for the late Sir W.
Blint?