The Finger of Fate

The funny thing about it was that I did not know George Barstow at all
well. Had he been an intimate personal friend of mine, the affair might
have seemed more natural. But he wasn't: he was just a club acquaintance
with whom I was on ordinary club terms. We met sometimes in the
bridge-room: occasionally we had an after-lunch brandy together. And that
was all.

He had obviously a good deal of money. Something in the City, but a
something that did not demand an extravagant amount of his time. His
week-ends were of the Friday to Tuesday variety, and I gathered that he
was on the border line of golfers who are eligible to compete in the
Amateur Championship.

In appearance he was almost aggressively English. Clean-shaven, and ruddy
of face, his natural position was with his legs apart on the hearth-rug
and his back to the fire. Probably a whisky-and-soda in his hand, or a
tankard of beer. Essentially a man's man, and yet one who by no means
disliked the pleasures of the occasional night-club party. But one
realised they must only be occasional.

He was, I suppose, about thirty-seven, though he was one of those men
whose age is difficult to tell. He might quite easily have been in the
early forties. His appearance was healthy rather than good looking: his
physical strength was distinctly above the average. And to finish off
this brief outline of the man, he had joined up in the earliest days of
the war and finally risen to the command of a battalion.

I recognised him when he was a hundred yards away from the inn. He was
coming towards me down the road, his hands in his pockets, his head sunk.
But the walk was unmistakeable.

"Great Scott! Barstow!" I said as he came abreast of me, "what brings you
here at this time of year?"

"Here" was a little village not far from Innsbruck.

He glanced up with a start, and I was shocked to see the change in his
face. He looked positively haggard.

"Hullo! Staunton," he said moodily. Then he gave a sheepish little laugh.
"I suppose it is a bit out of my beaten track."

"Come and have a spot of this," I remarked. "I've tasted much worse."