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Each day the odour of mortification became more pronounced. The decaying bodies of millions of fish upon the beach and upon the bed of the inner harbour, which had been lifted above sea-level; the indescribable odour of smouldering debris; the stench consequent on the wreck of the drainage system; the miasm of death, became more pestilential with every rising sun, and brought at last the inevitable order of evacuation.

Under such conditions Roy’s war service stood him in good stead. When called upon to show why he should not be evacuated with the rest he lied with the assurance and ready wit of the trooper. He explained, with tears in his eyes, that he had come to Napier in company with his brother to search for his wife and two children. So far, these had not been found; but his brother’s wife and child had been found—dead. He referred, of course, to the Harleys. James Harley was his brother, and—well, they saw how it was? Poor old Jim’s brain had been a little unbalanced by the shock. He had not known that his wife and kiddie were in Napier. He gave no trouble. He spent every day at the graveside———

The officer in charge of the evacuation nodded. He made brief notes of the respective ages of Roy’s fictitious wife and children, together with the date they were supposed to have come to Napier. He did not hold out any hope that they would be found alive. The best he could do was to hope that they had not been in the town at the moment of the shake.

Roy left the office of the commandant apparently a broken, despairing man; and, once outside the range of the sympathetic eyes which watched him, hurried away cheerfully to inform his “brother” that he had fixed things.

“All the same, Mr. Harley,” he had added, with a touch of petulance, as his “brother” set out towards the grave on the hill, “I think it would be better if you went back home. This place will break your heart.”