All through the thirty-six hours of his journey back to England, business nagged at the mind of Peter Jameson. He made the first twenty miles, Neuve Eglise—Strazeele—Borre—Hazebrouck, on horse-back; caught an afternoon train which crawled through Amiens and Abbeville, making Boulogne too late for dinner; slept at the Officers’ Club; and crossed the Channel in smooth sunshine on a boat which carried only the mails and a few fortunates to whom leave restrictions did not apply.

But neither Little Willie trotting happily along uncrowded roads, nor the stammered friendliness of blue-clad gaudy-capped French Officers in the antimacassared first-class compartment, nor a night in a civilized bedroom, nor any of the petty pleasures of home-going, penetrated to a conscience obsessed with uncomfortable thought, a brain occupied with financial riddles.

Moreover—though this Peter failed to realize—that brain was not quite the sure-functioning machine of old days. No man comes quite unscathed through eight months of fighting: even if the body be unwounded, the mind—which must force the body through its physical revulsion—pays toll in restlessness, in loss of concentration.

And so Peter’s problem, instead of coming to him clear-cut and impersonal, took at first the shape of a grievance, of a self-reproach. Fate had not treated him quite fairly. No reasonable being could have imagined that the renewal of the partnership deed with Simpson would land him in such a coil. It was just rotten bad luck.

Arrived at which point, the wind began to reproach itself. Bad luck! Not a bit of it. If he, Peter Jameson, had possessed any common-sense, he might have foreseen this happening. He, Peter Jameson, thought himself a damn clever fellow; whereas, actually, he was a fool. Otherwise, he would have stayed at home, like Sir Hubert Rawlings and a thousand others....

But at that, the soul revolted; the dumb patriotism of the man re-asserted itself. For, deep down in Peter’s consciousness, lay the firm conviction that in volunteering for service he had done the one possible thing.... Only, it did seem as though Fate were exacting a highish price for his self-respect—first the loss of Nirvana, and now this new complication.

He pulled himself together; set his brains to grapple the problem resolutely. It was,—regarded as he now managed to regard it, impersonally—a simple riddle. Jamesons’ capital consisted of twenty-eight thousand pounds; half of this roughly belonged to him, half to Simpson’s estate. Under the deed, he would have to pay out Simpson’s executors within twelve months.

Had he been free, had there been no War, he could have borrowed the money on the security of the business, taken in another partner, amalgamated with a competitor. But he was not free, would not be free till the War ended. And he had seen enough at first hand to know that the War—unless America came in—could easily go on another five years.

He might, of course, compromise with Simpson’s executors, spread the payment over a longer period. But, in that case, who would carry on the concern? Miss Macpherson? He could hardly imagine a woman running Jamesons’. Mallabone, their sole remaining traveller? Mallabone had no brains. Besides—and here the effect of war on Peter’s temperament clearly revealed itself—any such solution contained the element of risk. He had lost more than half his capital: and he funked any diminution of the rest.

Funked it! He, Peter Jameson, who had never funked a business gamble in his life....

“The only alternative,” said reason, “is to sell out. You’ll get hardly anything for goodwill: outside the stock and book-debts, your only asset was the Beckmann contract. That’s not worth twopence today. Still, if you could sell the business as a going concern, your capital would, at any rate, be safe....”

So thinking, Peter stepped out of the Pullman on to the platform of Victoria Station.