He was unaccountably distraught and stayed my hand before I had begun to pour out the whisky. Then he accepted a cigar and threw it back on to the table. I felt that he had been allowed out of hospital too soon.
"How did you get wounded?" I asked.
"In a counter-attack," he answered listlessly. "We were shelled out of our trench, then we got it back, then they cleared us again, and I—well, you see, I didn't run fast enough."
The account was sufficiently vague, but phrase following phrase had a ring of familiarity, and a picture began to form itself in my mind.
"Where did this happen, Raney?" I asked.
"I don't know whereabouts it was on the map," he answered. "If you want to put up a tablet in my honour, get anyone on our front to direct you to Seven Dials."
As long as I could I resisted the memories stirred by that name. O'Rane sat carelessly swinging one leg over the arm of the chair and staring into the fire. As I watched his pale face and nervous movements, a wave of nausea swept over me, and moments passed, leaden-footed, before I could be sure of my voice.
"What's the matter with the other hand?" I asked carelessly.
"A bayonet jab," he answered.
I sprang to my feet as the last web of uncertainty was swept away.