He had astonished the War Office by his request to be sent to the Front with his old arm, the artillery, and he was himself astonished by the instant assent that was given.  And now on this October day he was on his way to do two things—­to see whether Adrian Fellowes was keeping his promise, and to visit Jigger and his sister.

There had not been a week since the days at Glencader when he had not gone to the sordid quarters in the Mile End Road to see Jigger, and to hear from him how his sister was doing at the opera, until two days before, when he had learned from Lou herself what she had suffered at the hands of Adrian Fellowes.  That problem would now be settled forever; but there remained the question of Jigger, and that must be settled, whatever the other grave problems facing him.  Jigger must be cared for, must be placed in a position where he could have his start in life.  Somehow Jigger was associated with all the movements of his life now, and was taken as part of the problem.  What to do?  He thought of it as he went eastward, and it did not seem easy to settle it.  Jigger himself, however, cut the Gordian knot.

When he was told that Stafford was going to South Africa, and that it was a question as to what he—­Jigger—­should now do, in what sphere of life his abnormally “cute” mind must run, he answered, instantly.

“I’m goin’ wiv y’r gryce,” he said.  “That’s it—­stryght.  I’m goin’ out there wiv you.”

Ian shook his head and smiled sadly.  “I’m afraid that’s not for you, Jigger.  No, think again.”

“Ain’t there work in Souf Afriker—­maybe not in the army itself, y’r gryce?  Couldn’t I have me chanct out there?  Lou’s all right now, I bet; an’ I could go as easy as can be.”

“Yes, Lou will be all right now,” remarked Stafford, with a reflective irony.

“I ain’t got no stiddy job here, and there’s work in Souf Afriker, ain’t they?  Couldn’t I get a job holdin’ horses, or carryin’ a flag, or cleanin’ the guns, or nippin’ letters about—­couldn’t I, y’r gryce?  I’m only askin’ to go wiv you, to work, same as ever I did before I was run over.  Ain’t I goin’ wiv you, y’r gryce?”

With a sudden resolve Stafford laid a hand on his shoulder.  “Yes, you are going ‘wiv’ me, Jigger.  You just are, horse, foot, and artillery.  There’ll be a job somewhere.  I’ll get you something to do, or—­”

“Or bust, y’r gryce?”

So the problem lessened, and Ian’s face cleared a little.  If all the difficulties perplexing his life would only clear like that!  The babe and the suckling had found the way so simple, so natural; and it was a comforting way, for he had a deep and tender regard for this quaint, clever waif who had drifted across his path.

To-morrow he would come and fetch Jigger:  and Jigger’s face followed him into the coming dusk, radiant and hopeful and full of life—­of life that mattered.  Jigger would go out to “Souf Afriker” with all his life before him, but he, Ian Stafford, would go with all his life behind him, all mile-stones passed except one.