"Nonsense." Seymour's gruff tone concealed emotion. Hargraves' face
betrayed death's indelible sign. "You'll pull through, once you're back
at the hospital."

Hargraves shook his head; he realized the futility of argument.

"Have you pencil and paper?" he asked.

"Yes." Seymour drew out his despatch book and removed a page. "What is
it, John?" But some minutes passed before his question received an
answer, and Hargraves' voice was noticeably weaker, as he dictated:

DEAR KATHLEEN:

I saw Karl in London at Victoria Station. I swear it was he ... warn
Uncle ... Kathleen ... Kathleen ...

There was a long silence; then Seymour laid aside the unneeded brandy
flask and slowly rose to his feet. He mechanically folded the scrap of
paper, but before slipping it inside his pocket, the blank side arrested
his attention.

"Heavens! John never gave me her address or last name. Who is Kathleen?"
he exclaimed.

More shaken than he was willing to confess even to himself, by the loss
of his pal, he stared bitterly across the battlefield toward the enemy's
lines. How cheerily Hargraves had greeted him that morning on his return
from a week's furlough in England! How glad he had been to rejoin the
unit and be once again with his comrades on the firing line! A gallant