Roy was looking intently at Polly. She flushed, and put up one hand to shield her face.
“Yes—I know—” Roy said, as if answering a remark. “Of course you’d like to hear of anything he had said. I’m trying to remember. Somehow, I don’t think——”
“He did not speak of any of us, you mean—that one day.” There was a strained composure in Polly’s manner.
Roy was trying still to conjure up the past.
“Such a lot happened just then, and I’ve gone through so much since! But I fancy I should remember, if he had said anything particular. You see, he had walked the whole way from Valenciennes to Verdun, when he was only half over an illness, giving up his horse to a young fellow who was worse than himself; or at all events Den thought him worse. And he was desperately done up. I never saw anyone look more ill than he did, the day he came in.”
Polly made a movement of surprise. “Denham!” she said incredulously. “Why—he never found anything too much for him.”
Molly put an unfortunate question. “Do you mean that he wasn’t able to talk?”
“Well, no, I don’t mean that. We did talk a good deal that evening; much more than Den was fit for. And there was a letter from—from her—” in a lower voice. “There was a letter to my father, which had come not long before. She said in it how well Polly was looking. I read the letter aloud to Den, but I don’t think he said much. He was too thoroughly dead-beat to do more than answer questions. My mother said something, I remember, about there being letters from everybody—Polly as well—most likely on the road. I don’t think Denham said anything even then—except that he thought the letter I had read ought to be burnt. I don’t believe it ever was, by-the-by. So much happened afterwards.”
“And the very next day—was it?—you were taken off by those horrible gendarmes,” added Molly.
Polly had turned her face away. Roy gave her a glance, then whispered—