One by one, their reports came back to him, unanimously hopeless.
Heartsick and discouraged, he rallied from each disappointment, only to
face defeat again. He had spent weeks in fruitless journeying, following
up every clue that presented itself, waited days at hospitals for chiefs
of staff, and made the dreary round of newspaper offices, where
knowledge of every conceivable subject is supposedly upon file for the
asking.

One enterprising editor, too modern to be swayed by ordinary human
instincts, had turned the Colonel over to the star reporter--a young man
with eyes like Allison's. By well-timed questions and sympathetic offers
of assistance, he dragged the whole story of his wanderings from the
unsuspecting old soldier.

It made a double page in the Sunday edition, including the
illustrations--a "human interest" story of unquestionable value,
introduced by a screaming headline in red: "Old Soldier on the March to
Save Son. Violinist about to Lose Hand."

When the Colonel saw it, his eyes filled so that he could not see the
words that danced through the mist, and the paper trembled from his
hands to the floor. He was too nearly heartbroken to be angry, and too
deeply hurt to take heed of the last stab.

No word reached him until late at night, when he arrived at the
metropolitan hotel that he had made his headquarters. When he
registered, two telegrams were handed to him, and he tore them open
eagerly. The first was from Madame Francesca:

"Slight change for the better. New man gives hope. Better return at