As he looked down at her in silence he saw her gaze shift and her eyes fix themselves on something above the tree-tops overhead.

“There’s that eagle again,” she said, “wheeling up there in the blue.”

He looked up; then he turned his sun-dazzled eyes on the pages of the little notebook which he held open in both hands.

“It’s amusing reading,” he said.  “The late Sir W. Blint seems to have been something of a naturalist.  Wherever he was stationed the lives of the birds, animals, insects and plants interested him. ...  Everywhere one comes across his pencilled queries and comments concerning such things; here he discovers a moth unfamiliar to him, there a bird he does not recognise.  He was a quaint chap—­”

McKay’s voice ceased but his eyes still followed the pencilled lines of the late Sir W. Blint.  And Evelyn Erith, resting her yellow head against his knees, looked up at him.

“For example,” resumed McKay, and read aloud from the diary: 

“Five days’ leave.  Blighty.  All top hole at home.  Walked with Constance in the park.

Pair of thrushes in the spinney.  Rookery full.  Usual butterflies in unusual numbers.  Toward twilight several sphinx moths visited the privet.  No net at hand so did not identify any.  Pheasants in bad shape.  Nobody to keep them down.  Must arrange drives while I’m away.

Late at night a barn owl in the chapel belfrey.  Saw him and heard him.  Constance nervous; omens and that sort, I fancy; but no funk.  Rotten deal for her.”

“Who was Constance?” asked Miss Erith.

“Evidently his wife....  I wish we could get those trinkets to her.”  His glance shifted back to the pencilled page and presently he read on, aloud: 

France again.  Headquarters.  Same rumour that Fritz has something up his sleeve.  Conference.  Letter from Constance.  Wrote her also.

10th inst.: 

Conference.  Interesting theory even if slightly incredible.  Wrote
Constance.

12th inst.: 

Another conference.  Sir D. Haig.  Back to hangar.  A nightingale singing, clear and untroubled above the unceasing thunder of the cannonade.  Very pretty moth, incognito, came and sat on my sleeve.  One of the Noctuidae, I fancy, but don’t know generic or specific names.  About eleven o’clock Sir D. Haig.  Unexpected honour.  Sir D. serene and cheerful.  Showed him about.  He was much amused at my eagle.  Explained how I had found him as an eaglet some twenty years ago in America and how he sticks to me like a tame jackdaw.

Told Sir D. that I had been taking him in my air flights everywhere and that he adored it, sitting quite solemnly out of harm’s way and, if taking to the air for a bit of exercise, always keeping my plane in view and following it to earth.

Showed Sir D. H. all Manitou’s tricks.  The old chap did me proud.  This was the programme: 

I.—­’Will you cheer for king and country, Manitou?’