“They’ve killed poor ole King.  Dutch Frank’s in their pay—­sleeping in the nex’ room to us all these weeks.  They hold your feet to the fire till they swell and burst.  They’ll do that to you, old thing, ’cause you’re with me.  Ole girl—­I say, ole girl!  You won’t yell out, will you?  Ole girl—­show them how an Eng—­Eng—­can die!”

She watched him, fascinated, her back against the door.  With a look of infinite cunning he began to search his pockets and produced a bundle of papers, ordinary note-paper, pale grey with an embossed address and telephone number at the top.  He handed them to her solemnly.

“If they get me, ta’ these!  Lea’ me!  Le’ me die f’r ole flag!  Braved a thous’ years batt’ and the breeze!  Ta’ these to the Gov’-Genral!  He mus’ sen’ these to King George!  May save Buck’m Pal’s!  If all else falls, mus’ save Buck’m Pal’s, Marshella!  King George unstans code—­all in code—­”

She took them dazedly in her hands.  She saw that on the whitewashed wall against which he had almost stuck himself was a great patch of wet from his drowned clothes.  He was standing with a pool of water dripping from him; his blazing eyes were darting this way and that in terror, his mouth was working loosely.  Occasionally he lost power of speech entirely and regained it with didactic distinctness for a few moments.  He made ineffectual grabs at Marcella, but his shaking hands failed to reach her.  His inflamed brain searched back to every horrible physical thing he had read, or seen, every operation he had watched; his morbid condition made them things of obscenity, atrocity.  He repeated them all to her with such circumstantial and guileless exactitude that her brain reeled, and still she stood by the door, keeping out she knew not what.  Watching her face growing whiter, more pinched, he remembered things done to women by madmen—­and said them aloud.

She glanced at the bundle of papers in her hand, wondering where she could hide them from his enemies.  Opening them out so that she could fold them better she read the top page.  It was written in thin, Italian handwriting, the typical caligraphy of the upper-class woman of middle age.

“My own Darling Boy,” she read.

“I enclose the usual pound from the Pater.  Also five shillings each from Mary and myself to get you some cigarettes and chocolates.  I hope you can get that nice milk chocolate you like so much in Australia.  My dear, I hope and pray every day that you will remember that promise you gave me at Tilbury.  When I see other mothers with big sons I feel I can’t bear your being right at the other side of the world.  Mrs. Cornell came in with Rupert to-day, and for the first time in my life I felt I hated them both.  The doctor and Mr. Blackie have been in playing billiards with the Pater.  I strongly suspect the Pater let the old chap win.  Anyway, he was very excited about it when he went home.”

She turned over to the last page, and read, “given Toby his biscuit and told him Master will soon be home.  He will, won’t he, dear boy?