cares of a rapidly developing business and certain domestic ties had
prevented Mr. Lewis from offering himself upon the altar of his
country. The responsibility of eight per cent. investments entrusted
to his care was not easily shaken off. Business, of course, was a
national necessity. However, since the armistice, Mr. Lewis had ceased
to be either explanatory or inferentially apologetic--even in his own
thought--for his inability to free himself from the demands of
commerce during a critical period.

In any case he was there, sound in wind and limb, a tall,
square-shouldered, ruddy man of thirty-five, seated behind an oak
desk, turning Hollister's card over in his fingers with an
anticipatory smile. Blankness replaced the smile. A sort of horrified
wonder gleamed in his eyes. Hollister perceived that his face shocked
the specialist in B.C. timber, filled Mr. Lewis with very mixed
sensations indeed.

"You have my card. It is several years since we met. I dare say you
find me unrecognizable," Hollister said bluntly. "Nevertheless I can
identify myself to your satisfaction."

A peculiarity of Hollister's disfigurement was the immobility of his
face. The shell which had mutilated him, the scalpels of the German
field surgeons who had perfunctorily repaired the lacerations, had
left the reddened, scar-distorted flesh in a rigid mold. He could
neither recognizably smile nor frown. His face, such as it was, was
set in unchangeable lines. Out of this rigid, expressionless mask his
eyes glowed, blue and bright, having escaped injury. They were the
only key to the mutations of his mind. If Hollister's eyes were the
windows of his soul, he did not keep the blinds drawn, knowing that