The sentence remained in his brain in lit letters.
The States of America couldn't help him; even Mother Nature had turned her face from this war.... “My dear Boylan, I'm sorry—” something crippling in that.
Dabnitz returned, bringing a pair of saddle bags.
“They're Mr. Mowbray's,” he said. “His horse got loose and tangled himself in a battery. One of the men brought in the bags.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” said Boylan.
Dabnitz started to the door when Boylan called, “Oh, I say, did you look through 'em?”
The Russian smiled deprecatingly.
“Of course, I needn't have asked that, but I wanted you to. I'll gamble you didn't find anything—”
“A little book of poems by a man we're familiar with. A woman's name on the front page—a woman we're familiar with. Nothing startling, Mr. Boylan.”
Dabnitz was gone, the bags lying on the floor. Big Belt opened the nearest flap. On top was a case containing a tooth brush and a pair of razors.