The viewpoint was unexpected. Rutledge heard himself saying aloud, "I was Max's friend. It's the least I can do."

"Aye. All the same, ye'll remind her of the war. And she'll no' thank ye for that."

Half an hour later, having told the Yard where to find him, he had set out for Gloucestershire and Hume's home just over the border.

It was late when he got there, and he found lodging in the small hotel that stood on the main street of the town. He had hoped to arrive in time to speak to Rosemary that evening, but the drive had taken longer than he'd anticipated.

He had never been to Chaswell. It was a pretty little town, and Max had spoken of it often, but after the war neither man was fit for casual visits, although they had stayed in touch desultorily by letter.

The next morning, he went to Hume's house. It was set back from the road, a low wall surrounding the front garden and two steps leading to the grassy walk up to the door.

Before he'd lifted the crepe-hung knocker, the door opened, and Rosemary Hume stood on the threshold, staring up at him with haunted eyes. Rutledge said, "I've come to do what I can."

She flung herself into his arms and wept on his shoulder. It was the only time he was to see her cry. Pulling away at last, she wiped angrily at her tears before he could offer her his handkerchief. In the background he could hear voices, but she pulled the door closed behind her, to shut them away, and said, "He shot himself. He went to the far side of the churchyard, and shot himself, where I wouldn't be the first to see him. And when they came to tell me that he was dead, I wanted to take up that revolver and shoot him again. The fool. The poor, wretched, damned fool."

"He wrote to me. But by the time the letter came, it was too late."

"He left only a brief message for me. He told me he loved me too much to drag me down into his despair, and he asked my forgiveness.