It did not perplex him; it maddened him. He whispered a
defiant protest to himself and walked on. He was able to think more
calmly when he reached his room. There were the facts, the simple,
undeniable facts, to be faced without shrinking,--and a decision to be
made.
For months Hollister, when he thought of the past, thought of it as a
slate which had been wiped clean. He was dead, officially dead. His
few distant relatives had accepted the official report without
question. Myra had accepted it, acted upon it. Outside the British War
Office no one knew, no one dreamed, that he was alive. He had served
in the Imperials. He recalled the difficulties and delays of getting
his identity reestablished in the coldly impersonal, maddeningly
deliberate, official departments which dealt with his case. He had
succeeded. His back pay had been granted. A gratuity was still
forthcoming. But Hollister knew that the record of his case was
entangled with miles of red tape. He was dead--killed in action. It
would never occur to the British War Office to seek publicity for the
fact that he was not dead.
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