NELSON DARTREY is seated at a writing table studying maps. He is
a man in the early thirties, prematurely worn and old. His face
is burned a deep brick color and is sharpened by fatigue and loss
of blood. His hair is sparse, dry and turning gray. Around the
upper part of his head is a bandage covered largely by a black
skull-cap. Of over average height the man is spare and muscular.
The eye is keen and penetrating: his voice abrupt and authoritative.
An occasional flash of humor brings an old-time twinkle to the one
and heartiness to the other. He is wearing the undress uniform of
a major in the British army.

The door bell rings.

With an impatient ejaculation he goes into the passage and opens
the outer door. Standing outside cheerfully humming a tune is a
large, forceful, breezy young man of twenty-eight. He is DERMOD
GILRUTH. Splendid in physique, charming of manner, his slightly-marked
Dublin accent lends a piquancy to his conversation. He has all
the ease and poise of a traveled, polished young man of breeding.
Dartrey's face brightens as he holds out a welcoming hand.

DARTREY

Hello, Gil.

GILRUTH

(Saluting him as he laughs genially) May I come into officers'
quarters?