Front matter (continued 2)

Having then watched the party's arrival at their destination, Graeme, well pleased, descended into the nullah, occasionally climbing out, glasses in hand, while a frown gradually overspread his face as time went on and nothing happened. By now he had abandoned hope, and was apathetically listening to his soldiers' talk when there was a sudden general cry of "'Ullo!" and removing the handkerchief from his face, he looked up to meet a pair of bulging eyes staring at him from above. It was Bates the sentry, an agitated Bates, bursting with momentous tidings.

"Beggy pardon, sir," he gasped, '"Ook ... Sergeant Walker, sir, 'as left 'is 'ill, and there's 'eavy firin' goin' on in the Parse, you can 'ear it quite plain from 'ere."

A chorus of "Gawds," a scuffle, a rush, and all were up the nullah's side and standing on the level, with eyes fixed on the dark rift in the mountain wall. Yes, there it was, the dull intermittent thudding of shots, plainly audible in the still morning air, and, as Graeme listened, a queer cold thrill ran through him—that strange sensation, half awe, half exultation, which every soldier has felt on whose ears the sound beats for the first time.

In those red mountains yonder a drama was now being enacted, a drama all the more terrible because unseen and only imagined; one in which he too must shortly play his part. He, now warm and palpitating with life, would a few minutes hence be standing in Death's presence, nay, might have passed into his keeping and become deaf and insensible as the stones on which he lay.

Fascinated, he stood gazing, and still the firing continued, but, strain his eyes as he might, no sign of enemy could he see on those bare brown slopes; nor yet of the sergeant and his party was there a trace. They were gone, apparently swallowed up in the mountains.

At last from the mouth of the Pass a cloud of dust appeared, through which horsemen could be discerned galloping hard along the road leading to Fort Hussein.

At the sight, a buzz of conversation arose.

"Made a 'ash of it, same as I thought he would."

"Been up the Parse, cont'r'y to orders."

"An' now 'ookin out of it, double quick?"

"'Ow many's been shot, I wonder?"

"Mount," from Graeme, and straightway there was a cessation of comments and a frenzied descent to the nullah and horses, each man seizing the first animal he came to, regardless of ownership. A blast of bad language rose up like smoke.

"Leave my 'orse alone, Ginger. Get on yer own ruddy 'orse."

"Which of you blokes 'as pinched my lance?"

"Take yer 'orse's foot off my carbine."

"Forward, gallop, march" from the leader, and the troop were off, making for the road along which the horsemen were advancing—Graeme with his trumpeter some thirty yards ahead. As he rode, he thought hard, speculating as to what had happened, and wondering if it meant the chance for which he had been asking, till at length the road having been reached he halted, the troop drawn up in line across the way behind him, waiting for the fugitives, now barely a quarter of a mile distant, and still galloping hard towards him. On they came, nearer and nearer still, till their faces could be seen, and at the sight a simultaneous murmur of "Gawd" broke from the staring men.

"Halt!" shouted Graeme.

The horsemen paid no heed, but still came on, a wild-eyed rabble, their horses in a lather, with necks outstretched as they thundered along the dusty road.

"Halt!" he roared once more. "Halt!" echoed the Sergeant-Major.

"Christ, they'll be into us," from the troop, whereupon an ominous murmur and shuffling arose from the ranks.

"Damn it, my lot'll be off in a moment," muttered Graeme, and then, inspiration coming to him, "Engage!" he shouted.

Immediately, at the familiar word of command, the murmuring ceased, with a clatter of bamboo and steel down came the lances, and a row of glittering points barred the road; behind them sat a line of motionless figures, soldiers firm and steady once more, their momentary wavering gone.

At the sight the fugitives stopped, and a high-pitched chattering rose upon the air, each man telling his story, glancing the while with fearful eyes towards the mountains behind. Livid cheeks ran wet with tears, and little quavers of laughter, broken with sobs, broke from loose-lipped mouths, the loud gasping of the steaming horses drowning the pitiful outcry; but their comrades behind the lance-points answered nothing, only looked at them, their eyes cold and faces grown suddenly white and very serious.

"And these are British soldiers," muttered Graeme, a feeling of disgust coming over him; "the others would have been the same too in another minute." And then rage seized him, and riding up to Sergeant Walker, now a shivering jelly of a man, he began furiously to question him.

In vain, however; the creature was too far gone to answer, and could only babble incoherently, while he pointed with shaking finger to his horse, in whose side could be seen a small dark hole, from which at every laboured breath a thin stream of blood ran out, staining with dull crimson the white dust of the road. At length, patience deserting him, he seized the man by the collar and shook him. This method proved more effectual, and he succeeded in eliciting the fact that he had taken his party up the Pass in spite of orders, that they had been suddenly fired upon from all sides, and he couldn't clearly remember what had happened then; but they had got out all right, all of them.

"Private Mortlock missing," said the Sergeant-Major's voice from the rear, and at the words a cry of exultation almost escaped Graeme, for his calculations had proved correct, and Sergeant Walker had provided him with the chance asked for. Remembering in time, however, he checked himself, and turning his back on the troop began rapidly to consider. The risks were obvious, also the futility of the proceeding on which he had already determined, but of these he thought not at all, for with him an idea once formed became an obsession. It had to be carried out, right or wrong, possible or to all seeming the reverse, for such was his nature. The "how" might require consideration—deep consideration too, as now—but the "whether" never. His course once decided on, doubts never assailed him, and in this he had the advantage over most; for feeling no doubt, and consequently no counter-emotion rising to cloud his brain, this was at his disposal, free to work undisturbed at the problem before it. So now, with all eyes fixed upon him, he sat debating and then the plan clear before him he turned and rode slowly back to the staring troop:

"Men," he said, "I'm going back for Mortlock, I want four volunteers, who's for it?" Silence for a good ten seconds, and then out from the rear rank rode a dirty-looking soldier, one Private Williams, reputed the worse character in the troop. Forward he came, and, halting behind Graeme, sheepishly grinned at his comrades.

"I'm wiv yer, Billy, strike me," said a voice, and Private Rogers, his chum and constant associate in evil-doing, also rode forward and ranged himself alongside.

"I'll come too, sir; it's a Christian's duty," said another quietly, and Private Green, the religious man of the troop, and an ardent temperance advocate, joined the other two.

A pause followed, Graeme's eye running down the line.

"I should like you, Haslopp," he said at last, "to make up the party," whereupon, without a word, a huge shoeing-smith, the regimental "strong man," left the ranks, and the number required was complete. "Right," said Hector, "four good men," at which unwonted eulogy Rogers and Williams winked in unison. "Now, Sergeant-Major, you'll be in charge of the troop till I return. Bring them on after me to that rise there, and open fire on the hills bordering the Pass. Don't suppose you'll see anything, or hit it if you do, but it will help to keep the enemy's fire off me. As for them," pointing to Sergeant Walker's men, now very silent and subdued, "keep 'em well in front; run a lance into any man of them who tries to bolt. That's all, I think. Now then, my heroes, forward on," and, shaking up his horse, Graeme set off, followed closely by the quartette of volunteers.

"A nice selection," he reflected as he rode, "two bad hats, one religious lunatic and a thick-headed shoeing-smith. Never mind, such as they are, they came at a word from me, and I love 'em for it. Gad, I do. Devilish quiet it all is," as mile after mile was covered, and still the silence remained unbroken; "nearly there now, must be, and not a shot so far. Wonder whether they've cleared off and it's going to be a walk-over after all. Ah, not it," suddenly ducking his head, as something sighed through the air above him, followed by a deep bang, while a wailing cry of "Allah, Allah," came faintly to his ears. "Stooks is at it too now," he continued, as the rending shriek of cordite sounded from behind, and a flight of bullets whistled overhead. "Lord, we're in for it." He bent forward in his saddle and urged his horse forward at top speed, while the air was alive with winged death and the hills ahead echoed to the loud banging of Jezail and Snider. "It's good though, all the same, worth living for;" and, a sudden feeling of exhilaration coming over him, he shouted aloud. Rogers and Williams screamed hoarsely in sympathy, till a loud thud followed by a ringing crash brought the concert to an abrupt termination. "Who is it?" shouted Graeme, pulling up and looking round.

"Rogers, sir," came faintly from a dusty heap on the road, the said heap sitting up and looking around with dazed eyes. "Not 'urt, though, sir, it's me 'orse 'e's got 'it in the 'ead. 'Ere, Billy," rising and walking unsteadily towards his chum, "gimme 'old of yer stirrup, I'll foot it alongside."

"You'll do nothing of the kind," shouted Graeme, "go back to the troop at once, and take your sword and carbine with you."

"Beggy pardon, sir, Williams and I..."

"Get back, damn you."

"Beggy..."

"Oh, go to the devil. Come on, men. Let go of that stirrup, Rogers; hit him on the head, Haslopp, if he won't," and once more the party were off, leaving Rogers looking sullenly after them. For some minutes he stood there, and then, having addressed a few pungent remarks to his dead horse, unbuckled his sword and extricated his carbine from its bucket, and, one under each arm, trudged away to a rock hard by. Here he sat down, and, having lighted a cigarette, proceeded at his leisure to take pot-shots at the hills in front of him.

Meanwhile, the party, now reduced to four, were rapidly nearing the mouth of the Pass, but so far no sign of the missing man was to be seen. Faces began to look serious, and the sense of imminent peril to strike home, but still their leader held on, though with every yard covered the situation was becoming more desperate.

Suddenly there arose a cry of "Here he is, sir," and Graeme, looking round, saw Green bending over a heap of khaki lying some distance from the road, the others with their officer having passed it by unseeing.

"Get up, Mortlock," shouted Hector, galloping towards the prone figure.

"Look sharp, man, there's no time to be lost. What's the matter, Green, not dead, is he? Oh—" stopping short and looking curiously down at what had been a human face before Pathan knives had altered it. Much interested Graeme remained staring, till roused by a warning voice.

"Look out, sir, they're comin' down from the rocks; they'll be on us in a minute. Better be off, sir; can't do nuthink for 'im now."

"Go to blazes. Haslopp, where the devil are you, Haslopp? Here, I'll hold your horse; you get down and hand him up to me, put your back into it, man. Oh, for the Lord's sake, look sharp."

"It's all right, sir, plenty of time. Christ, but ye're 'eavy, ole man. 'Ere you are, sir, got 'im? Not that way, sir. Put yer arm round 'im, let 'is 'ead rest agin yer shoulder like."

"Damn, he's slipping; he's slipped, Haslopp. Get your swords out, you two, look behind you," to Green and Williams, whose faces were now ashen.

"Orl right now, sir. Gimme my 'orse, Williams. Blast ye, don't let 'im go."

"Are you up, Haslopp? The point, Green, mind, not the cut."

"Not yet, sir, steady," to his dancing horse; "orl right now, sir."

"Come on then. Be off, you two, no good your waiting here. Gallop on and tell the troop I'm coming—you too, Haslopp."

There was no answer from the shoeing-smith; he remained where he was. Not so the other two; they were off like swallows, nor did they draw rein till a voice from the roadside made them pull up, sick with sudden terror. It was only Rogers, however, requesting the loan of a stirrup, and, much relieved, the two, Rogers running alongside, proceeded on their way.

"Price of a pint out of this 'ere?" gasped the pedestrian.

"Thank God, on your bended knees, Rogers, for 'Is mercy to us all this day," said Green.

"So I will, matey, when I gits the pint. Think the bloke 'll stand it, Billy?"

"Ruddy oceans, cully," was the reassuring answer, "and a limon squash for the rivrend Grassey 'ere."

Meanwhile, Graeme and Haslopp were struggling painfully on. More than once the burden slipped, and but for the "strong man's" assistance would have rolled to the ground, while, to add to their difficulties, Hector's horse had been shot through the neck and was trying his best to bolt. From a canter the pace had fallen to a trot, and finally a walk, bullets and chunks of telegraph-wire shaving them at every step. Fortunately, however, the enemy, the party having once moved off, made no further attempt at pursuit. Possibly they deemed it hopeless, more probably the sight of the troop in rear deterred them; but whatever the reason, they stopped where they were, contenting themselves with shooting at the retreating horsemen from behind their rocks. Still, it was a weary journey, and Graeme's arms were numb with the strain and his brain reeling with the smell of sweat and blood, when at length the firing slackened and then, save for an occasional shot, ceased altogether. Now, but half conscious, yet clutching his burden the tighter, Graeme toiled on, till at last, mingling with the fast-increasing roar in his brain, the thud of galloping hoofs was heard approaching. Louder and louder it sounded, and then round a bend in the road ahead appeared the sturdy figure of Sergeant-Major Stocks, with the troop behind him.

Seemingly miles away, Graeme heard the shout of "'tion" followed by "Carry lance," and then the white road seemed to rear up and smite him in the face. He reeled, fell forward on his horse's neck, hung there for a moment, and then, still gripping the corpse, rolled over sideways, Haslopp supporting the double burden till help arrived, when he rode quietly back to his former place in the rear rank.

* * * * *

"Stand 'im on his 'ead, Major; always keep a bloke's 'ead wot's fainted lower than 'is 'eels."

"Take yer 'orse, Cobble, and 'urry up the ambulance. Tell 'em the orfcer's dead."

"Do nothing of the kind, Cobble. I'm all right; fetch me a water-bottle."

"Water-bottle, water-bottle," from many voices, "'oo's got a water-bottle? 'Ere y'are, sir."

"Send the men away, Sergeant-Major, what the devil are they staring at?"

"No business to be 'ere at all, sir. Be off, all of you, at once; never seen an orfcer before? Get back to yer 'orses sharp."

"Where's Mortlock?"

"Lying over there, sir, where them men are. I've sent for the ambulance; it's comin' along the road now, sir. Cut about 'orrible is Mortlock, sir, 'is brains——"

"Oh, shut up, and give me a cigarette."

"Cigarette, 'oo's got a cigarette? The orfcer wants a cigarette. 'Ere y'are, sir."

"Get the troop mounted now, and tell the trumpeter to bring my horse."

"Better ride in the ambulance, sir, ye're faint-like."

"With Mortlock? No, thank you, Sergeant-Major. I'm all right, I tell you," getting up and promptly sitting down again. "Wait a minute, now I'm ready," and shaking off the Sergeant-Major's arm he walked slowly back to the troop.

"Three cheers for the orfcer," said a voice.

"Stop that and get mounted," was the surly answer, "right about wheel, walk, march."

The troop moved off, the ambulance following close in the rear, and in an hour's time they were passing under the walls of Fort Hussein. These were lined with soldiers in every species of undress, for the messenger despatched for the ambulance had made good use of his time; and all were anxious to see the corpse, which, from Private Wainwright's account, must be well worth inspection.

"The Colonel would like to see you in his quarters at once, Graeme," said Ferrers, riding up; "the body is to be taken to the mortuary. I'll arrange about that," whereupon without further colloquy the adjutant rode away.

"Curious way to greet a fellow who's just done what I have," muttered Graeme, staring after him, "I suppose he's sick he didn't do it himself. Gad, what jealous beggars fellows are. Never mind, I've got the crow over them this time anyway," and with a pleased smile on his lips Hector dismounted, and handing over his horse to a waiting orderly made his way to the Colonel's quarters.

A cold summons to "Come in" answered his knock, and entering he found himself in the presence of two men, one his commanding officer, the other a thick-built individual, whose hair of bristling black stood up around his head like a brush, a round rosy face and staring black eyes completing the picture. This person was Colonel Quentin, generally known as Golliwog, a man who, despite his somewhat quaint appearance, was reputed to be one of the best staff officers in India. As Hector's fate would have it, he had selected this day for a few hours' inspection visit to Fort Hussein, which time he had spent on the top of the tower in company with a powerful telescope.

"You sent for me, sir?" said Graeme, addressing his Colonel and smiling as he spoke, the smile fading, however, as he noted the expression on the latter's face, which, far from being congratulatory or even civil, was unpleasantly hostile.

"Yes, I sent for you," he answered shortly, "but first let me introduce you to Colonel Quentin. This is Captain Graeme, sir, the officer in command this morning," whereupon Golliwog rose from his chair and silently held out his hand. He then resumed his seat, his eyes fixing themselves upon Graeme in a hard, unwinking stare, maintained without intermission throughout the ensuing interview.

"It seems, Graeme," resumed Schofield, "and I regret to say it's not the first time, you've made a mess of things."

"I, sir, how?" stammered Hector, utterly taken aback.

"By disobeying orders; you know perfectly well the strict injunctions not to enter the Pass, and yet in spite of them your patrol went up this morning, with the result that you lost a man most unnecessarily. Of course, my information may be incorrect, and, if so, I should be glad to hear it."

For a moment Graeme was silent. This view of the matter was one altogether unexpected by him, and rendered his action the more impossible of explanation from the fact that it was true—though how true fortunately neither his Colonel nor anyone else knew.

"Sergeant Walker, sir, exceeded his instructions, I think, though, I'm hardly to blame for that."

"Not to blame," snapped Schofield, "who is then, I should like to know? If you'd given your instructions properly, it wouldn't have happened. An officer's not responsible for his troop, isn't he? A nice theory to hold, I must say."

"You recovered the man's body, I believe, Captain Graeme?" said Golliwog gently.

"I did," was the sullen answer.

"Was the firing heavy when you went back?"

"It was."

"Hum," and Quentin again relapsed into silence.

"It's thanks to that, Graeme, your recovery of the body, I mean," resumed Schofield in a quieter tone, "and the intercession of Colonel Quentin, who has promised to explain the affair to the General, that I do not intend to carry the matter further. I trust, however, it will be a lesson to you, and that in future you'll be good enough to obey orders exactly and implicitly. That's all, I think, unless, sir," turning to Golliwog, "you'd care to say anything."

"Of course, Graeme," answered Quentin, "I'm quite in accord with your Colonel. An officer must stand or fall by what his command does. He has the training of them, he gives the orders, and if the latter are misunderstood he gets the blame; it's really fair, for he also, and not the men, gets the credit if things go right. A very great many officers can do things themselves, Graeme, but to make others do them for you, you being the head and they the hands, wants a leader. All the same, as regards this morning, I think, and I am sure your Colonel agrees with me, that your personal share was creditable, most creditable."

"Oh, most creditable," snarled Schofield.

"That's all I wish to say, Colonel," continued Quentin. "Good-bye, Graeme, I hope to meet you again some time," and the speaker's teeth gleamed in a sudden smile, as he shook Graeme warmly by the hand.

"That's a curious-looking officer, Schofield," he resumed, the door having closed behind Hector. "Stuff in him, I should say, must be. How does he do his work?"

"Indifferently well, to be truthful, sir."

"Hum, very likely. Three-cornered beggar I can see. Wouldn't do for an A.B.C., you think? Belman wants one, I know, for this Tirah show, and if you recommend I could easily get him the job."

"Couldn't do it, sir, really; his General would starve in a week, and I should get the blame. As you told him yourself just now, sir, a man's responsible for his subordinates."

"Hum, in that case I suppose I mustn't ask for him. Pity though, I should like to have done something for him. Good-bye, Colonel, I must get back to Saidabad. Not done much inspecting, thanks to Graeme. Good-bye."

* * * * *

Meanwhile Hector, with wrath in his heart, was striding back to his quarters, passing, as he went, the officers' Mess, a disused stable, where a crowd was assembled discussing lunch and the morning's events.

"Hullo, there goes the hero," said Kinley, seeing him pass. "Hi, Graeme, come here, tell us all about it," vainly calling. "Lord, he looks sick; wonder what the old man's been saying to him? Damned bad luck, really, to earn a V.C. and get a choking off."

"V.C. be hanged," said another, "damned disgraceful, the whole thing, I call it. Nice show up for the regiment, Golliwog looking on too."

"Shut up, O'Hagan," said Royle, one of the majors. "It was a devilish plucky thing to do, and I for one mean to tell Graeme so when I see him."

"Oh, of course, Royle, I didn't mean anything against Graeme personally. He did his best to save the situation, but, all the same, it's not a nice thing for a fellow to have his men bolt, for bolt they did; you can't get away from that. If I were he, I know I'd send in my papers and never be seen again, not a bad thing for the regiment, too, if he did. By-the-bye, I'm having a small gamble in my room to-night, hope you'll come, Royle, and you too, Carson," to another officer who had just entered. "We'll have dinner sent over from the Mess."

"Thank you, O'Hagan, I should like to," answered Royle, but the other refused somewhat shortly.

CHAPTER V

The weeks passed, Christmas came and went, but still the monotonous peace reigning over Fort Hussein and its environs remained undisturbed. All around, sometimes even within hearing of the garrison, mountain and pass echoed to the thunder of guns and rattle of rifle-fire, but for them there was nothing; listless and inactive they remained, apparently forgotten, in the surrounding tumult. The 1st Lancers were a good regiment, not fashionable, possibly, but efficient and keen; further, they were "happy," and knew nothing of those internal dissensions which destroy the harmony of less fortunate corps. Here, however, shut up in a dreary frontier fort, with nothing to occupy or distract their minds, the tone of the regiment insensibly changed. Tempers, always uncertain in India, wore dangerously thin; quarrels blazed forth on little or no provocation; and soon cliques, constantly shifting, began to form.

On one subject, however, these various factions were in absolute agreement, that one being the cordial dislike they all felt for Captain Hector Graeme. For a time, following on his exploit in recovering Private Mortlock's body, his brother officers had been inclined to make much of him, and to show him, the juniors especially, that they considered the Colonel had been both hard and unjust; but these feelings on their part had long since died away, and their former sentiments regarding him again prevailed.

This, it must be owned, was largely due to Graeme's incapacity to respond to their well-meant overtures, but their latent aversion was fanned by the assiduous slanders of Captain O'Hagan—who had a peculiar unreasoning hatred for Hector—till now they had come to regard the Mortlock episode as one highly discreditable to all concerned in it, and of which the less said the better. The word "bolt" had been freely used by that person, and, though Royle and one or two others had at first checked him, he had persisted, even to the extent of uttering his calumnies outside the regiment, with the result that Graeme, save by the men and one other officer, found himself regarded more or less as a pariah. A recent decision of his, moreover, had given colour to O'Hagan's insinuations, for, thanks to some unknown influence, Hector had been offered, and refused, a billet as transport officer to a column fighting in Tirah, a chance at which any other officer of the regiment would have jumped.

On receiving this application for his junior officer's services, the sole proviso being his own recommendation, Colonel Schofield had for some time hesitated. Against his own convictions—and they were strong ones—he had been impressed by what Colonel Quentin had said concerning Graeme, and, being a conscientious man and one who theoretically had no likes or dislikes among his subordinates, he had begun to ask himself whether it were not possible he had made a mistake about this junior. With this idea in his mind, he had laid himself out to find the hidden pearl in the oyster, even unbending so far as to ask Graeme to accompany him, in place of his adjutant, on one of his early morning rides, the result being that on that occasion he rode alone, Hector having unfortunately overslept himself. Stifling his annoyance, he tried again, but, though this time successful in securing his junior's company, the invitation was never renewed, Graeme's conversation, alternately silly and boastful, having tried the Colonel beyond endurance.

Major Rawson, privately spoken to on the subject, did not feel hopeful of ultimate improvement in his captain; he grew worse, he declared, instead of better, his squadron accounts were always in a muddle, while to give Graeme a duty to perform was for that duty to be scamped or, more likely, shirked altogether. True, in an emergency, such as the fire in the squadron store, he seemed to wake up—indeed, he extinguished the flames before the arrival of the engine; also the men liked him; but, for his part, he had no belief in these fly-away fellows, who only worked by fits and starts; give him the methodical straight-going officer, who was always the same and followed the rules laid down. And the Colonel, agreeing, had thereupon commenced his perusal of the morning's mail, amongst the letters being the above-mentioned application. For a day and a night Schofield wrestled with his doubts, and then, though with considerable misgiving, sent for Hector and informed him of his willingness to recommend him for the post.

"Only promise me, Graeme," he concluded, "that you really will put your back into this. Remember, it's not only yourself you have to think about, but also the credit of the regiment."

The concession—and to Colonel Schofield it was a great one—had been made in vain, for Hector then and there declined the chance offered him, giving no reason. Incredulous at first, his Chief soon lost his temper, for it was one thing, he felt, for him to hesitate to recommend a subordinate, but quite another for the latter, when so favoured, to refuse the offer. It would be far better now, he realised, for Graeme to go, even though he proved himself a failure, for, after all, he had been applied for by name, thus throwing responsibility on the shoulders of the applier; whereas his refusal to go would assuredly give rise to caustic remarks from authority, anent lack of keenness in his command, inability to influence his officers, etc.

With these harassing thoughts in his mind, he stifled his anger and proceeded to reason with Graeme, urging upon him the greatness of the opportunity offered, and pointing out the folly of refusal. In vain; Hector remained unmoved; he had made up his mind, and with him, that done, the matter was finished. The interview also afforded him a very real gratification. Well he knew—with that uncanny intuition of his—what was passing in his Colonel's mind, and was more than ever determined to thwart him. It was his turn now; he would make the most of it, and repay his Chief for the humiliation he had heaped upon him before a stranger, in this very room, three months before. Hector never forgot an injury, or a kindness for that matter, and the remembrance of that interview had been smouldering in his heart ever since. One word of praise then, or afterwards some acknowledgment of what he had done, might have been the making of Graeme; but this was not Colonel Schofield's way. Praise from him, if earned, was to be understood, blame to be expressed, and so he had seized upon what was wrong in his subordinate's conduct, ignoring the rest.

Graeme had shown gallantry, it was true, but it was not necessary to praise him for it; the sense of having done his duty, he considered, ought always to be sufficient reward for a soldier. It was not sufficient for Hector, however, to whom applause was as essential as the modicum of opium is to the well-being of a Chinaman, and the consequence of his Colonel's refusal to gratify this craving was to fill him with a bitter sense of grievance and determination to annoy his superiors in every possible way. They wanted him now, did they? he thought. Very well, they shouldn't have him, he was not going to risk his life a second time; he had done it once, and got nothing for it save abuse, and it would be the same again, for they were all alike; he would see them damned before he went. Schofield therefore was but wasting his breath, and, realising this at last, he abandoned the effort and dismissed Graeme from his presence, concluding the interview by remarking that an officer who refused the chance of active service was, in his opinion, best out of the regiment he commanded.

"You may think what you please," muttered Hector, on his way back to his quarters, "but I'm hanged if I will resign. I meant to once we returned to Riwala, but now I won't, just because you want me to."

Thenceforth Hector went his solitary way, shunning, and shunned by, his brother officers, and doing just sufficient regimental work to enable him to avoid a second interview with his Colonel, who was now, he knew, only waiting the opportunity to fall upon him.

To most men, his would have been an impossible existence, but Graeme had been at variance with his fellows since his childhood, and his ever-present feeling of grievance, coupled with the sense of battle against odds, served but to stimulate and harden him in his course. Indeed, had it not been for one thing, he would rather have enjoyed his present life, but that thing was a big one to him, intolerable even, namely, his total inability to cope with the slanders of Captain Robert O'Hagan, whose enmity he returned with a concentrated bitterness of hate, such as, had he been aware of it, would have possibly made that cautious person pause. Many times he had sought to bring his traducer to task, but always without success, for O'Hagan was cunning, popular too amongst his fellows, while Graeme was the reverse, and blank looks or even flat refusal was the sole response he met with in his frequent endeavours to elicit definite proof of calumny from the mouths of his brother officers.

Of wordy controversies in public—and only in the presence of others would O'Hagan condescend to address Graeme—there had been many, and violent ones, but invariably the result had been humiliating to Hector, for O'Hagan possessed the ready tongue of a cheap-jack, and easily reduced Graeme to impotent silence, the latter's feeble, though rude, rejoinders only awakening delighted titters from all present. One day, he sought out O'Hagan and threatened personal violence, to which menace his enemy, who was no hero save in public, where he was safe, replied by calling up a passing junior and requesting Hector to repeat his recent observations. This, Graeme, too angry or too careless to consider consequences, promptly did, whereupon O'Hagan at once reported him to the Colonel, producing his witness, and the Chief, glad of the chance, let himself go for a full ten minutes. Hector subsequently departed to his quarters, where he flung himself down on the bed, gritting his teeth, and tearing at the counterpane.

Thus engaged, he was suddenly brought to himself by a knock at the door, and Captain Carson, his one and only friend in the regiment, entered.

"Hullo," said the latter, looking at him, "what's the trouble? You seem put out."

"I'm busy, Peter, what do you want?" was the answer.

"Nothing much," said Carson, unruffled by his greeting. "I'll go if you want me to. Got some news for you, that's all."

"What is it?"

"Regiment's going back to Riwala, thought I'd tell you so that you could wire to your missus. She's back from Kashmir, isn't she?"

"Likely she'd stay up there in the snow, isn't it? What the devil are we moving for? I hate a move, the whole place upset and everybody fussing like blazes. Lord, how Rawson will fidget, shan't have a moment's peace now, I suppose."

"What an extraordinary fellow you are, Graeme. Don't you want to go back?"

"Of course I do, no one but a fool would wish to stay here. It's the moving I hate. Gad, but I'll be glad enough, I know, to have my own house again, and be quit of the cursed Mess and my brother officers for a while."

Carson frowned.

"Why do you always sneer at the fellows, Graeme? It's no wonder they dislike you."

"I hope they do, but I don't wish to talk about them. When are we off?"

"Three days from now, Ferrers says, just in time for the races."

Graeme's face darkened.

"Blast the races!" he said.

"In heaven's name, what for? You're hard to please this morning."

"O'Hagan's benefit, that's what Riwala racing means, Carson. O'Hagan——"

"Oh, shut up, you've got O'Hagan on the brain. 'Pon my soul, Graeme, I can't understand this hatred for the fellow. I don't like him much, I own, nor I believe do the others really, but I don't hate him. Why are you so infernally immoderate in everything, why not take things quietly, as I do? You'd find life much easier. After all, he's not a bad-hearted fellow."

"He's a low, cowardly blackguard, not one redeeming point about him."

"There's no fellow like that, Graeme; anyway, he's an officer of the regiment, and all our talking won't alter that fact."

"You're right, Peter, talking won't."

"Well, what else can you do? Hullo, what the—— Good Lord!" for the door had been suddenly kicked open—O'Hagan never knocked save at a senior's door—and the subject of their discussion stood on the threshold.

"You here, Carson?" he said, his eyebrows lifted in seeming surprise at the latter's being in such company. "Come and play bridge."

"Not now, thank you, O'Hagan; as you see, I'm talking to Graeme."

"That won't keep you. Graeme's in for it again, cutting stables this time. Rawson wants you, Graeme, at once, going to wheel you up before the C.O., I believe."

"All right, O'Hagan, thank you."

Hearing the gentle answer instead of the outburst he expected, Peter Carson looked up in surprise, with a curious feeling of uneasiness. Surprised also was Captain O'Hagan, but pleasantly, for at last he thought he saw his enemy cowed and conscious of the futility of further resistance. His dark eyes gleamed and a bullying note came into his husky voice.

"It's not all right, I can tell you," he said. "Rawson says, of all the slack, useless——"

"Quite so, and now—get out."

"Get out, who the devil are you talking to? Keep away, d'you hear? Carson, you're the senior officer here, you're witness——"

"Sit down, Graeme, and you, O'Hagan, be off. You've given your message, and I should say made the most of it. Clear out."

"Oh, very well, though I must say it's a nice way to treat a brother officer. The Colonel shall hear of this, I promise you, both of you."

"If you stay another minute, I'll throw you out myself, by God, I will," said Peter, the Carson temper suddenly blazing up, and rising he advanced towards the other, who, however, did not await his approach, but fled hastily.

"Riling fellow that," said Peter, resuming his seat and proceeding to relight his pipe, which had gone out. "Very near lost my temper. What the devil are you laughing at, Graeme, at me?"

"No, at him."

"Him, what for?"

"To think what a fool he is, hammering away like that."

"Hammering?"

"Yes, driving the nails in."

"Don't know what on earth you're talking about, don't suppose you do either. Well, I'm off, there's a busy time ahead for all of us," and Peter rose and went out, leaving Graeme deep in thought. For some minutes he sat there, and then walked across to the window, where he stood looking down on the squadron lines below, already permeated with the spirit of unrest, born of the news of the coming move.

Hurrying to and fro, pointing with his stick and explaining the obvious, Major Rawson could be seen, two harassed-looking subalterns and the Sergeant-Major in close attendance; while some distance away, grave-faced and dignified, Colonel Schofield was standing, issuing orders to the alert Ferrers, who was zealously taking down the same in a large note-book.

A feeling of angry contempt was aroused in Graeme as he looked. "Fussy fools," he muttered, "the whole regiment turned upside down because of a move of a few hundred miles. God! there's Rawson lifting a saddle and weighing it. Why don't he take his coat off and groom the horses and pack the kits while he's about it? And you're worse," he continued scornfully, apostrophising his unconscious C.O., "you're a damned humbug, you are; for only the other day you agreed with Quentin when he told me that to make others work and not work yourself was the thing, and now you see the exact reverse going on you stand there and say nothing. Make me sick, the whole lot of you do. Wish to God I had the running of the show; I'd soon stop all that, and at the same time get them off with no bother at all."

He turned from the window and threw himself down on the bed once more, where he lay evolving schemes of fussless removal, and then, his interest in the subject growing, he seized pencil and paper and committed his ideas to writing. And, as it happened, the idle occupation of a few minutes was not wasted, for Major Rawson, possibly from over-anxiety, was that same evening laid low by fever, and the command of the squadron consequently devolved upon Hector, who thereupon proceeded to put his newly-hatched plans into execution. Ignoring hourly messages and instructions from the sick-bed, he the next morning summoned his non-commissioned officers to his quarters, and after an hour's conversation dismissed them, he himself departing for the day in quest of Cee Cee.[#] Nor, except for half an hour daily, did he subsequently visit the lines, though in the other squadrons all the officers were in attendance throughout the day.

[#] A kind of rock partridge.

To the disappointment of his confrères, no hitch occurred in B Squadron arrangements; on the contrary, while all around fuss and confusion reigned, in Hector's command there was clock-like precision, and to the minute on the day appointed for departure, their kits and tents packed away before daylight on bubbling camels, his men stood waiting beside their saddled horses, with quiet enjoyment on their faces as they viewed the agitated throng on either side. Nor did an extra-minute inspection by a cold-faced Colonel reveal the deficiencies he hoped in his heart to find, and a distinct feeling of injury was in the Chief's heart as he found himself forced to order B Squadron to move off first—A, the leaders by right, not being yet ready. At the station, however, disaster at last arose, Williams and Rogers profiting by the occasion to slip away to the bazaar, where next day they were found by the garrison police very drunk. The consequence of this mishap was severe censure for Hector, Schofield remarking that such disgraces were to be expected in a squadron left to the care of non-commissioned officers.

CHAPTER VI

A few evenings later, with the dream-like rapidity with which life's scenery is constantly shifting behind its players, Hector was once more back in his Riwala home. Gone—flitted into the past—were the bare mud walls, stinking lanterns and camp-chairs of the Fort Hussein Mess; in their place the soft comfort and luxury of a drawing-room, each detail of which had been personally superintended by Lucy herself. Here now, warm and comfortable, he reclined in a huge arm-chair, his eyes dreamily gazing into the crackling log-fire before him, and his mind in the beatific state induced by the consumption of an excellent dinner and the subsequent inhaling of a Turkish cigarette.

Beside him, busy with the knitting of a yellow silk waistcoat, sat Lucy, a dainty figure in tea-gown of lemon and white, which was quite in harmony with the soft lights and colouring of her surroundings. Like the hen-pheasant, however, in gorgeousness of plumage she was quite out-shone by her lord, whose smoking-jacket of amethyst velvet, with buttons of pink crystal, amber silk shirt, and Russia leather slippers of the same hue, formed a somewhat striking picture. On his knee reposed a somnolent white cat, a species of animal he loved, which he was caressing with much tender solicitude.

"Hector, dear," said Lucy, suddenly breaking the silence, "I've got an idea."

"Have you, Lucy? Ow!" to the cat, "you old beggar you, put your claws out at father, would you? Come and tickle this chap's tummy, Lucy, and see him kick."

"Oh, put the thing down, it worries me to see you. Really, Hector, how a sporting person like yourself can adore a cat as you do is beyond me. If it was a dog now, I could sympathise, but—a cat."

"A dog, nasty fidgeting brutes; besides, every fellow in the regiment's got one, that alone's enough. As for my being sporting, so's a cat, the finest sportsman in the world, a genuine one too, hunts for his own pleasure, not to be thought a good fellow, like most men. What about that big lizard we caught this morning, eh, old Nimrod?" again addressing the unresponsive animal.

"To me they're like spiteful women, Hector."

"Just where you're wrong, Lucy, a cat's not a bit like a woman. They're restful, which a woman's not; they're independent; know what they want and get it, while a woman not only don't know her own mind, but always does the very reverse of what she preaches."

"Really, Hector, I'm sure you can't say that of me."

"There you are, Lucy, can't discuss a thing without taking it personally. Besides, you're as bad as any of them. You're always at me to become a keen soldier, yet, when the chance of active service comes along, you——"

"Dear, that's not fair, as I've told you before. You surely wouldn't like me not to care, Hector, like some wives?"

"I don't suppose I should, but it's not that I'm talking about, it's the inconsistency. But, about cats and women a cat only takes what it wants, a woman, on the contrary——"

"Oh, bother the cats! I want to talk about something else, the Regimental Cup to-morrow."

"When I propose to be ten miles away at Rarkat Jheel, quail shooting."

"Oh, but, Hector, you can't really. The regiment's At Home, and we must put in an appearance; besides, I should like it."

"Like it, a fifth-rate race-meeting?"

"Yes, I should. I'm not a hundred, Hector, and every woman wants a little gaiety at times. Of course I love going out shooting with you and all that, but I think just occasionally we might vary the programme a little."

"Oh, of course, if you're set upon it, Lucy, that's another matter, but it's a weary business."

"Only because you make it so, and take no part in things, Hector. The Regimental Cup, for instance, every officer but you is running something, no matter whether it's got a chance or not. You only are out of it, and I hate it—it looks so odd and unsporting. I know, of course, it's not that, but the others think so."

"Let them think what they like, I don't care. I'm not competing because I can't win. I'll play second fiddle to no one, least of all to O'Hagan, and nothing I've got could beat Matador, he's a racehorse, the rest are only polo ponies."

"Hector, I do hate that Captain O'Hagan."

"Really, why? I thought he rather liked you."

"Oh, he's civil enough to me, it's because of his rudeness to you I hate him. Hector, do you know what he said the other evening at the Club?"

"That he meant having me out of the regiment? Yes, I heard of it, Lucy."

"He dared to say it, Hector. Oh, I could kill him for it," and Lucy's breast heaved and her blue eyes flashed.

Hector laughed. "Perhaps he will, Lucy; he has all the others behind him, you know."

"But you mustn't allow it, you must fight him. I'll help you all I can. The Colonel likes me, I know; let's have the old man to dinner, Hector, and do him really well. Oh, Hector, do rouse yourself, it's not like you to submit tamely."

Hector looked at her, and, as he did so, the curious glitter in his eyes vanished. Rising, he went across to his wife and kissed her.

"I believe you'd stand by me, no matter what I did, Lucy."

Some strange note in his voice startled her; she looked up. "Hector, what do you mean?" she said quickly. "Oh, Hector dearest, you won't, you don't mean to do anything mad?"

At the fear in her voice, Graeme's half-parted lips shut tight. He picked up the cat, and, returning to his chair, resumed his contemplation of the flames, his face expressionless.

"Don't be alarmed, Lucy," he said, and it seemed to her that there was a shade of contempt in his tone, "and as for O'Hagan and his paltry schemes, leave the poor fool to me. I'm only letting him play a little, and when the time comes—and it's pretty close now—it's Bob O'Hagan who'll go under, not me. But, about this idea of yours, what is it, to go to-morrow? If so, I will, as you want it."

"It's more than that, Hector, I want you to ride in the race for the Cup."

"But what on?"

"Hermes, Captain Carruther's second string. He'd give you the mount, I know, for I asked him this afternoon. He's a good pony, Hector, and jumps well, though of course he can't beat Matador."

"He'd be just about last, Lucy. I last, no thank you. Sorry, I'd like to please you, but it can't be done. I'll go to the races, as you wish it, but a ride on old Hermes is rather too humiliating a proceeding. Hullo," looking up at the clock, "past eleven, and an early parade to-morrow morning. Time for bed. Come on, Lucy. You too, Fop, old man, no tiles for Romeo to-night," Hector rose, and having lighted Lucy's candles, departed to his dressing-room, the cat hanging limply in his arms.

CHAPTER VII

"Sporting lot your fellows are, to be sure, Bob. Damme, the whole blessed regiment seems to be going for the Cup this afternoon."

The speaker, Captain Legge, a thin-faced rat of a man hailing from Bangalore, formed one of a group assembled in the ante-room of the Officers' Mess, 1st Lancers, discussing the past luncheon, coffee, cigars, and the race-card.

"Have to be, Tabby, or clear out," answered O'Hagan, glancing towards the far corner of the room, where Graeme was sitting, chuckling over the "Cat Derby," as depicted by Louis Wain. "Don't like unsporting fellows with us, don't keep 'em either. Hi! you," to a passing khitmagar[#] "liqueur brandy, jeldi, you soor,[#] d'ye hear?" his heavy eyes glaring at the man, who sullenly departed on his mission.

[#] A native waiter.

[#] "Quick, you pig."

"Grandee on the job to-day, Tabby?" asked Major Ramp, a racing gunner from Calcutta.

"Backing him myself, Barabbas, if that's any use to you," was the answer; "ought to be a pinch, now the Ferret's not goin'."

"Why didn't you buy him in the lotteries last night then, Tabby?" said another, drooping his eyelid at O'Hagan.

"I did, or rather Jackie did it for me, Cross; kept it quiet that way, and got him cheaper. That's right, ain't it, Jackie?"

"Quite," responded a squeaky voice, and Jackie, a meek-looking vet.—also hailing from Bangalore—thereupon produced a note-book from his pocket and began to turn over the pages.

"What about your own, though, Jackie," said Ramp; "he's in the same race, ain't he?"

"The old Tinker? No earthly, Ramp, been off his feed the last two days."

"Don't shout it to the Mess, hang it, man," said his patron, frowning at him.

"Sorry, Tabby, but we're all pals here, these fellows won't give it away, I know, especially if they want to back Grandee, and, if they take my tip, they will."

"Of course not," from all, and "Thank ye, Jackie. I'll bear it in mind," from Major Ramp, who, knowing the pair, made a mental note to leave that particular race alone.

"Matador's a certainty for your race, I suppose, Bob?" said Captain Brass.

"Moral, if he stands up, and he's never fallen yet. Got a pot on him, advise you fellows to do the same."

"Who's riding him, Bob?"

"Having a go myself. Must be one of the regiment, you know, which gives me rather a pull; give most of 'em seven pounds at least."

"I see old Cyclops is running, Bob; queer old devil, used to belong to us till Stainforth sold him to Carson. New game for him, racing, though, ain't it?"

O'Hagan looked round the room before answering. Strangely enough, he was frightened of Carson, though not in the least of Graeme. Seeing no sign of Peter, however, he replied boldly:

"Cyclops is not going. I stopped it. A race full of amateur jockeys is dangerous enough, without a one-eyed brute of a pony no one can hold joining in. So I just told Carson I wouldn't have it, and there was an end of it."

"Why ain't Graeme performing, Bob?" asked Brass. "He used to go like smoke at home with the Bicester."

"Captain Graeme don't ride now, except on parade, when he has to," answered O'Hagan, again glancing towards the corner and meeting Hector's eyes over the top of the paper. This was instantly raised, however, and encouraged by the surrender O'Hagan continued:

"What do you do with unsporting fellows in your regiment, Ramp?" he observed.

"Show 'em we don't want 'em," was the answer.

"But if they won't go, what then?"

"Get the Colonel to report badly on them, but surely Graeme..."

"Oh, I wasn't talking about him, of course, brother officer, you know, Ramp, and all that. Still," lowering his voice, though speaking very distinctly, "as you are aware, every regiment has its undesirables, useless fellows no one likes; one doesn't talk about it, of course, but there it is."

"He's a devilish good shot, is Graeme," said Brass, "best I ever saw, I think."

"Cavalry fellows ought to be fond of riding," squeaked Jackie, "that's their game, not shooting."

"Or go to the infantry," said O'Hagan.

"What the devil d'ye mean, O'Hagan?" said Legge, who belonged to that branch of the Service.

"I really beg your pardon, old chap. I always forget you ain't a cavalry man or a gunner"—remembering Ramp—"you're such a sporting cove. Have another brandy?"

"No, thank you, and I don't see why a fellow shouldn't care for shooting even if he is in the cavalry; it's sport just the same as racing. Besides, Graeme plays polo, don't he?"

"Oh yes, in a way. His real hobby's clothes and cats, though."

"Cats?"

"Yes, sleeps with a cat, I'm told. Jolly for his wife, eh what? Hullo," suddenly breaking off, with a look of well-feigned surprise and concern on his face, for Graeme had risen, and, apparently unconscious of his or the others' presence, was now making his way to the door, "there's the man himself," he added, Hector having disappeared, "now I have done it."

"Good Lord, O'Hagan, why the devil didn't you tell us he was there?" said Brass indignantly. "He must have heard every word."

"Well, if he did, he only knows what all of us think, and..."

"I think we ought to be making a move, O'Hagan," said Legge shortly; "it's past one now, and I'm riding in the first race. Come on, Jackie, you're always an hour decorating."

He rose, and, the others following his example, the party departed to their different quarters to dress.

Meanwhile Hector was walking rapidly away from the Mess on his way to Carson's bungalow. At the compound entrance he paused, and for a moment stood leaning against the gate, as if reflecting; then once more moved on, and, entering the house, came upon Peter engaged in the sorting of fishing-tackle.

"Hullo, Graeme," he said, "you're just the man I want. Help me to straighten this out, will you? it's kinked like blazes," whereupon, without answering, Hector sat down on the bed, and, taking up one end of the line, proceeded to disentangle it.

"Hands very shaky this morning, Graeme," said Carson. "Why the dickens don't you give up those infernal cigarettes and take to an honest pipe, like me? You look pretty seedy too; what's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing, want of exercise, I suppose. Think I'll go for a ride this afternoon."

"Can't. The regiment's At Home, and we've got to be there. Pity you didn't enter one of your ponies for the Cup, as I wanted you to; you'd have had your ride then."

"I wish I had now, I'd give something for a mount. I envy you old Cyclops, even."

"Cyclops is not going."

"And why not?"

"Because I don't want to break my neck, that's why."

"Break your neck be hanged. Cyclops is a devilish good jumper."

"All right, you ride him then; you're welcome."

"Thank you, Peter, I will. I'll go now and tell the sais to have him down on the course."

"You'll do nothing of the kind. I was only joking. D'you think I'm going to have your missus..."

"Where shall I find the sais?"

"I won't lend him, I tell you."

"Oh, want to back out of it, do you?"

"I never back out of anything; you know that perfectly well, Graeme."

"I used to think so."

"But..."

"Ah!"

"Oh, take the pony and be hanged to you. I don't want to lend him, I tell you that straight; but, since like a fool I offered the brute, you can have him. Break his neck if you like, your own too."

"Thank you very much, Peter, and will you or shall I have him sent down?"

"I will."

"Right, good-bye, you're coming yourself, I suppose?"

"Yes, with the ambulance for you."

"Good. I'll be off to dress," and Graeme, leaving Peter frowning at his knots, returned to his own bungalow, where he found Lucy awaiting him in the verandah.

"Where on earth have you been, Hector," she said, "and what's the matter?" staring at him.

"Nothing. I've been given a mount for the Regimental Cup, Lucy, just what you wanted, aren't you pleased?"

Lucy, however, did not look pleased. She stood, with her eyes still fixed on her husband's face.

"Why have you done this, Hector," she said after a pause, "rather a sudden idea, isn't it?"

"Oh, I know it seems changeable, Lucy, but I've been thinking about what you said last night, about its being unsporting not to ride, and so on. I'm really doing it more to please you than myself. Where are my things? I must hurry," trying to pass her as he spoke.

Lucy stopped him.

"Wait a minute, Hector," she said; "if it's only to please me you're riding, you needn't do it. I too have changed my mind; I'd rather now you didn't."

"And why not?"

"I don't think I quite know, but I don't wish you to. Let me send a note to Captain Carruthers, please, Hector, I'm sure he won't mind."

"This is absurd, Lucy; only last night you begged me to ride, and now that I've done what you ask, you——"

"I know it seems silly. Oh, Hector, I can't explain, but something tells me you ought not to. Please let me write that note."

"I certainly won't. I'm not going to be made a fool of like this," snatching at the chance of losing his temper, "and it's no good writing to Carruthers; it's Cyclops I'm riding, not Hermes."

"Cyclops," echoed Lucy, who knew the animal as she knew every pony, dog or child in the regiment. "Cyclops, oh, you can't mean it, Hector?"

"I do, though. Peter offered me the mount, and I've accepted. Oh, for goodness' sake be reasonable, Lucy; it's done now. Come and dress. Where are my things?"

"And you care so little for me as to ride a one-eyed bolting brute in a steeplechase," began Lucy furiously; then suddenly her anger passed, and coming close to her husband she laid her hand on his arm. "Hector, won't you for my sake give this up? It isn't often I ask anything of you, but now I do. Oh, dearest, please—please."

"And have Peter and the rest think I'm afraid? No, thank you."

"Hector, you know you don't care what they think. It's something to do with O'Hagan."

"Perhaps it is, Lucy; he called me 'unsporting' just now, and I'm going to show him I'm not. Once more, please tell me where my things are?"

"Hector, I implore you," began Lucy, and then, seeing his face, stopped. "You won't give this up then," she said, "whatever I say?"

"No; where are——"

"I don't know," she said violently, "and I don't care, find them yourself," and she left him, banging the door behind her as she went off to her room.

Here for an hour she remained, dawdling over her dressing, to the just indignation of Halling, her maid, who also proposed to go racing that afternoon under the escort of the regimental sergeant-major and his wife, and who, for the first time in her experience, found her mistress both trying and inconsiderate, and also for the first time sympathised with her master, stamping up and down the verandah outside.

At length, just as Hector had made up his mind to send for a horse and ride on without her, she emerged from her seclusion, and coldly asking him if he meant to come to the races that afternoon entered the waiting buggy, seized the reins, and drove off, Hector scrambling in after her. In silence they rattled down the broad mall, Lucy looking straight ahead and declining to answer Hector when he spoke, and after some narrow escapes from collision with passing gharries—for the lady was not driving with her customary skill—arrived on the scene of action.

To those accustomed to the greensward and trees of a British racecourse, that of Riwala would have come as a rather doleful surprise. Facing a great open stretch of dusty maidan, around which ran the track, rose the grand stand, a bare-looking edifice of wood and corrugated iron, surrounded by iron railings, forming the enclosure, where the various regiments of the garrison dispensed hospitality. For some hundred yards to the right and left of the stand the course, unmarked save by rows of whitewashed stones and a few flags, was shut in by a double row of wooden railings, the stand side and enclosure being reserved for the élite, that opposite for the [Greek: oi polloì] and such natives of the lower order as cared to attend.

The second race had just finished when Lucy and her husband arrived, and a babel of voices was rising on the air, bookmakers shouting their anxiety to pay on the winner, and spectators chattering to the accompaniment of brassy and somewhat unpleasing music from the band of the Queen's Own Purple Fusiliers.

All the notabilities of Riwala—almost, it might be said, of the Punjaub—were here assembled, mostly of military status, it is true, but nevertheless comprising a few civilians of importance, such as Mr. Timothy Qui Hye, the Commissioner, and, greater still, Sir Backshish Gussle Khana, Lieut.-Governor of the Punjaub—a very big man, and one conscious of his eminence, though, like some other great men, a little careless in his attire; his boots, of the kind known as "Jemima," and a "made-up" tie marring an otherwise irreproachable costume of decent black.

Many others were there too, though not of such eminence as his. Lady Pompom, for instance—the wife of Sir Julius Pompom, commanding the station of Dam Kot—a regal-looking lady, in a dress of imperial purple, surmounted by a white solar topee tastefully decorated with yellow flowers. A crowd of youths were about her, for Lady Pompom was fond of boys, designating them "young people of my own age." Some of these young people, it is true, looked as though they would like to be elsewhere, but no such defection was possible, as well they knew, for that would mean the official displeasure of Sir Julius, with, possibly, consequent stoppage of leave, and even—such things had been known—nasty remarks in confidential reports.

Those two ladies yonder, who were so warmly yet carefully embracing—a loving handclasp, a peck on the right place, a "How sweet you look!" and the thing was done—were Mrs. Warmon, the wife of Major Warmon of the 250th Mesaltchis, and her friend and foe, Mrs. Charpoy, better half of Colonel Charpoy, commanding the Purple Fusiliers. Rival beauties of Riwala, they hated each other right well, hence the warmth of the embrace; and both being a trifle touched up, this accounted for their care in bestowing the kiss, which operation completed they parted and spoke to each other no more that day.

Forlorn and unattended, on the steps of the grand stand, sat the two Game girls, their eyes roving in search of male recognition. This was their third year in the country, but, though hitherto unappropriated, hope was far from dead in their somewhat flat bosoms. Possibly the net may have been spread a little too openly in the sight of the bird, but, be this as it may, gamebag and creel were still empty, and the Misses Game remained, and were likely to remain, the Misses Game.

Into this throng walked Lucy, Hector following. She was all smiles, now that there were others to see—a trim, sporting-looking figure in brown, with a hat of the same colour, touched with vermilion, and smart, laced-up patent-leather boots. Not for long, however, was she suffered to remain with her husband, a cluster of young men soon surrounding her, all anxious to give her tea, show her their ponies, any pretext to draw her away for a little private conversation. For Lucy, unlike Hector, was a popular person with all, from the great Sir Backshish himself to little Tickler Macpherson, the dusky daughter—one of fourteen—of Dugald Macpherson, Assistant Commissioner of Riwala, Highland of name though café au lait in hue.

Reputed inaccessible to lovemakers, too, was Mrs. Graeme, which quality, and the ready sympathy she showed with their various husband, lover, and servant troubles, endeared her to the women, in spite of her looks and clothes; while at the same time it rendered her conquest incumbent on all self-respecting shikaris of ladies.

Eventually Captain Knowles, proficient at the game of love-making, wrested the prize from the other competitors, somewhat to his own surprise, for, though for some time he had done his best, he could not pretend that that best had been crowned with any measure of success. To-day, however, there was a welcome change in the lady's manner—she no longer chilled but smiled upon his efforts, ignoring her husband, to whom the gay captain, as she knew, was anathema. To her annoyance, Hector showed none of his usual signs of restiveness at the other's presence; on the contrary, he rather abetted his endeavours to please, and, on Knowles suggesting tea, handed her over willingly, and, turning away, was soon lost to view in the crowd. For a moment Lucy stood looking blankly after him, but, speedily rallying, expressed a desire for shelter from the sun, and Knowles, instantly responding, led her away in triumph, and was shortly afterwards comfortably seated beside his booty in the darkest corner of one of the big marquees.

"Thank Heaven," muttered Hector, "I'm alone at last, now, what's to be done to pass the time? Confound this waiting, my nerves are all anyhow. Hullo, there's Cyclops, I'll go and have a look at him." He walked away to where a native was standing holding a pony, a dun-coloured beast, rusty-coated and hideous. One of his eyes was gone, the result of a blow from the fork of a revengeful sais, whose arm Cyclops had playfully chawed; the other was small, and, as usual, vindictive-looking.

Not an engaging-looking mount for a steeplechase, it must be admitted, though the look of the brute appeared at the present moment to give satisfaction to Graeme, particularly the red eyeless socket, at which he attentively gazed. Nevertheless, despite his unengaging appearance, Cyclops had his good points, being hard as nails, a perfect fencer, and possessing the pluck of the devil with the temper of a fiend.

"Khabadar,[#] sahib," said his guardian, as Hector came up. "Ai bainchute,"[#] jerking at the bridle just in time to save Graeme's arm from bared yellow teeth, "Hamesha aisa hai, sahib, bôt bobbery bainchute wallah."[#]

[#] Look out.

[#] An untranslatable term of abuse reflecting on female relations.

[#] "Always like this, sir, a violent..."

"Horrid beast," muttered Graeme, looking at him. "I'll take the steam out of you, my friend; there won't be much bobbery about you when I've done." He walked away, and stood for a moment leaning over the enclosure rails. As he did so, a thunder of hoofs struck on his ears, and Tabby Legge flew past, his mount, a splendid chestnut Arab, fighting for his head as he went.

"Grandee," said Graeme, "that's the certainty, is it? Hum, and here's Tinker, Jackie up too, 'tisn't often he rides. Betty still to come—oh, here she is. Lord, what a commoner, different class altogether. I wonder what they're up to, some silly knavery, I suppose, from the way they talked in the Mess. It can't be Grandee, or they wouldn't have said so; still, that might be part of the swindle, for they know no one would believe them. All the same, I don't think it's Grandee, but Tinker, especially as Jackie's riding, they know they'd get a better price with him up. Hope to goodness they get done, though I don't see how they're going to, unless Betty wins, and she can't if the others stand up. Hullo, they're off, and one left at the post, which is it, Grandee, I suppose? No, it isn't; it's Tinker, then they do mean Grandee, after all. Funny, I could have sworn it was the other.

"Lord, it's a procession," looking through his glasses at the chestnut, who was leisurely cantering ahead of the already labouring Betty. "Well, that's over," lowering his glasses and turning away. "Why, what's up?" a sudden roar from the crowd rising on the air. "Good Lord," his eyes turned once more on the course, "Good Lord," for passing him was Betty, alone; some distance away, off the track, being Grandee, plunging and fighting with his rider. The favourite had run out. "Now, what the devil have they been up to?" muttered Hector. "Betty wasn't backed, I know. Aha, I have it, Tabby thought it was Jackie behind him, not knowing that rascal had been left, and pulled out to let him win"—which was the exact situation.

"Splendid that is, quite bucked me up; and now to dress, my race is next. I wish I didn't feel so shaky, though; my heart's going like a dynamo, and I can hardly breathe. Curious, what a nerve-ridden beggar I am, always like this beforehand, though once I'm started I don't care twopence. Anyone to look at me would say I was in a blue funk, and so I am really, or rather one part of me is; the other's right enough 'You tremble, carcass,'" he quoted half aloud, "'you'd tremble still more if you knew where I was going to take you.' Gad, you would. Ah, here's the tent. Lord, what a crowd! Most of them too, from the look of them, in a worse funk than I am. Got the colours, Abdul?" to his bearer, "All right, leave them here. I can dress myself," and Graeme, sitting down, proceeded to array himself in Peter Carson's chocolate and blue, after which he put on his overcoat, and, having been duly weighed, set off for Cyclops' stall, where he found Lucy and Carson surveying that ill-favoured beast.

"Oh, here you are at last, Graeme," said Peter; "we've been looking for you everywhere. Thought you'd given it up and gone home. I should, if I were you, Cyclops is not quite at his best to-day."

"What's the matter with him? He looks all right, anyway he's got to go."

"Hector, I wish you'd give it up," said Lucy, laying her hand on his arm; "for my sake, please do."

"Nonsense, Lucy, it's all right. Cyclops won't fall, will he, Peter?"

"I wouldn't bet about it; he might; I wouldn't trust him."

"You see, Hector, even his owner doesn't think it safe. Besides, you're not fit to ride; you look so white and strange, doesn't he, Captain Carson?"

"Oh, I don't know, Mrs. Graeme, a bit pale perhaps, but that doesn't go for much." Then aside to Hector. "You look like a ghost, man, don't be a fool, give it up, as your wife wants you to. It's not the game to frighten her like this."

"There's the bell," answered Hector. "Give me a leg up, Peter. Hold his head, confound you," to the sais. "All right, I'm up. Chor do.[#] Steady, you brute," and Graeme rode away, Cyclops now as quiet as a lamb.

[#] Let go.

"Oh, Captain Carson, I do hate it so," said Lucy, looking after him, "I feel certain something's going to happen."

"Not it, Mrs. Graeme, see how nice and quiet the pony's going."

"But he'll bolt as soon as they start, and Hector has no experience of race-riding."

"Nor have the rest; he's as good as most of them, anyway. Don't worry, Mrs. Graeme, but come and watch the race. Where would you like to see it from, the grand stand?"

"No, I'll stay here, I think. Don't let me keep you, though, Captain Carson, I shall be all right."

"I'd rather remain with you if I may. Hullo, there's the trumpet; they're off. Here they come. Cyclops leading."

"Surely he's bolted, oh, he has—he has."

"Not he, always goes a bit free to start with: he'll soon settle down, you'll see. Ah, well over, did you see that, Mrs. Graeme, yards to spare?"

"Where's Matador?"

"Behind, Lord, what a mover he is, only cantering."

"Who's that down, surely it's my husband?"

"No, it isn't, it's Falconer on Sultan; but he's up again now and on. Look how well Cyclops is going, a good twenty lengths ahead, if only he could keep it up."

"Where's Matador now?"

"Still behind; O'Hagan will leave it too long if he don't take care. Ah, there he is coming up now, leaving the rest standing; by Jove, he and Cyclops are almost abreast, both going for the open ditch. Good—good God! ... It's all right, Mrs. Graeme, it's all right, I tell you. Your husband's up and walking about. Take my glasses and look for yourself, they're better than yours."

"But the other—the other, is he up too?"

"Can't see yet, these glasses are so infernally bad. Mrs. Graeme, do you mind if I leave you?"

"No, no, go quickly; get there first before them," pointing to a stream of people flowing across the maidan towards the open ditch. "Bring him straight back to me. I'll have the buggy waiting there by those trees. Oh, my God, what a fool I was not to have understood, you too, Captain Carson, it's as much your fault ... Why didn't you refuse?"

"Because I was a blind idiot. Hi you," advancing on a sais holding a pony hard by, "give up that ghora[#] at once."

[#] Horse.

"Smit sahib's pony," said the man, not moving.

"Don't care who's it is; let go, I say, or——" raising his stick.

He snatched the reins from the terrified native, and flinging himself into the saddle galloped away, belabouring the pony as he went. It was a race, but Carson won, and reaching his goal, a good hundred yards abreast of the leading man, sprang to the ground and ran up to where Graeme was standing, looking down on a huddled heap of white and scarlet at his feet. A few yards away lay Cyclops, his neck outstretched and one eye sightlessly staring, while away in the distance, with reins trailing and stirrups flapping, Matador could be seen, galloping gaily homeward. Seeing Peter, Hector turned and hurried to meet him.

"Can't get rid of him, can't we, Peter?" he cried. "Well, I have, I've done what you couldn't do, old man, he's gone now, right enough, he and Cyclops together, come and see."

Carson seized him by the shoulder, crushing it in his grip.

"Hold your tongue, you fool," he whispered, "look behind you; they'll be here in a minute. D'you want to hang? Oh yes, I'll come and see. God help you," and, still holding him fast, he hurried on to where O'Hagan was lying.

"O'Hagan," he called, "get up, man, get up," and then, no answer coming from the heap, he knelt down beside it, and tearing open the silken jacket felt for its heart. For a few seconds he remained kneeling, the clamour from behind growing rapidly louder, and then rose to his feet once more.

"You're right, Graeme," he said quietly; "quite right, you have done it."

"What's happened, who is it?" said a breathless voice, echoed by others. The spectators had arrived.

"O'Hagan, dead," answered Carson. "Oh, keep away, man; have you no sense of decency? Where's a doctor?"

"Who's the other? Rode right into him. Most deliberate thing I ever saw in my life. I saw it quite plainly through my glasses."

Carson spun round, facing the speaker, his eyes blazing.

"Who was it said that, who was it, I say? Don't stand skulking behind there, whoever you are, but come out and say it like a man. Some poor loser, I suppose, with five rupees on Matador, whining because he's lost. Come out, I say, if you've a spark of pluck in you," but to the invitation there was no response; the speaker declined to show himself.

"You want to know about it, do you? All right, you shall. I'll tell you as I told old Peter here. Three weeks ago in Fort Hussein I——"

"I know you did, old boy, you were quite right too; it was my fault for lending you an infernal one-eyed brute. Can't you see the man's had concussion, and don't know what he's saying?" he continued, addressing the crowd.

"One-eyed," said a voice, "that accounts for it then."

"That accounts for it, as you say. Thank God, here's a doctor at last. It's O'Hagan, Sarel."

"Bad?"

"Neck broken, I think."

"Good God! and what about Graeme there? He looks pretty queer."

"I'm not queer at all. I'm perfectly clear. I'll tell you how it happened. It's a long story, but——"

"Graeme, your wife's waiting for you. She's anxious naturally, and I promised her I'd bring you back at once, you can tell me all about it as we go, I'd like to hear. Out of the way, please," to the crowd, who obediently formed a lane, and still holding him firmly by the arm Peter hurried Graeme away to where Lucy was standing.

"Is the buggy ready, Mrs. Graeme?" he said, not looking at her. "Yes, there it is; well, get him home as quickly as possible. Keep him with you, don't let him speak to anyone. He's a bit light-headed, you see," he explained, looking away, "don't quite know what he's saying; been talking awful rot."

For a moment Lucy looked at the speaker, but still he refused to meet her eye.

"I ... understand, Captain Carson," she said at last, and then shivered slightly and turned away.

"Who's light-headed? What the devil do you mean, Peter, and where's Cyclops? Hullo, Lucy, what are you doing here?"

"You've had a fall, dear. The race is over."

"Over, where's O'Hagan?"

"And I want you to take me back. I—I'm cold," and again Lucy shivered.

"Matador, O'Hagan, what of them?"

"Never mind about that now, Hector."

"I will know, I must know, where are they?"

Lucy looked questioningly at Peter; the latter nodded in answer.

"Captain O'Hagan's hurt, Hector."

"Is he dead, is he dead?"

Again Carson nodded, but this time there was no response from Lucy; he looked quickly up, and then, moving forward, stood almost touching her.

"O'Hagan is dead, Graeme," he said; "you may as well know it now as later. Oh, for goodness' sake, get your wife into the trap and be off. Can't you see she's nearly fainting?"

"Dead," echoed Hector, a deep sigh rising from his breast; then suddenly his mouth closed firmly, and he straightened himself.

"God! what an awful thing," he said. "How did it happen?"

"Oh, never mind that now, you'll hear all about it later. Get your wife home."

"Why, what's the matter, Lucy, you look pretty bad, shaken I suppose? Come along." Putting his arm round her, he supported her towards the waiting buggy, and with Carson's help lifted her in and tucked the rugs round her.

"Good-bye, Peter," he said, taking up the whip, "and thanks for what you've done. Talked awful nonsense, I suppose, didn't I? Must have had concussion. By the way, what time will the funeral be to-morrow, early, do you think?"

Peter stared at him, but Graeme's eyes met his boldly.

"I suppose it will," he said at last. "I'll come round to-night and let you know."

"Oh, don't trouble. I shall get the orders."

"I'll be round at half-past nine. I want to know how your wife is. Good-bye, Mrs. Graeme," and Peter raised his hat and walked quickly away.

* * * * *

Nine o'clock had struck. Once more Hector and Lucy sat together in the softly lighted drawing-room, the former a trifle pale, but otherwise in no way changed from the man of twenty-four hours before, the latter haggard-faced, with dark lines under the eyes that stared into the flames.

Now and again she would glance up furtively at her husband, her eyes curiously wondering as they took in the sheen of silk and velvet, the cat slumbering on his knee, and the air of placid content pervading his whole being; then, with a shiver, she would turn away and resume her contemplation of the fire. For, like Peter, Lucy failed to understand. Suddenly her lips began to tremble and her eyes to fill with tears; for a moment she remained fighting against it, and then, abandoning the effort, flung herself on her knees beside Hector, sobbing wildly:

"Oh, Hector, speak, say something; it's awful to see you, I can't bear it, I can't, I can't."

Graeme stroked her hair, and, bending down, kissed her.

"Hush, dear," he said gently, "you'll only make yourself ill, and after all, Lucy, it wasn't you who did it; it was I. Take it as I do. I don't..."

"It's that which is killing me, Hector, your not caring. Oh dear, can't you realise the—the—horror of it all?"

Hector frowned.

"I'm not a hypocrite, Lucy," he said slowly, "why should I pretend to care when I don't? I hated the fellow, so did you. Why this fuss then now?"

"Fuss, oh, my God, Hector, are you human, that you can talk of it like that?"

"I honestly don't understand you, Lucy, are you going to say now you wish the man back?"

"I'd give all I've got, Hector, for him to be alive again. I'd give even my sight, and there's nothing worse than blindness. Hate him, of course I hated him. I hate him now more than ever, because this afternoon was his fault. Oh, can't you understand it's not of him I'm thinking, but of you, Hector, you?"

"You think they—there'll be unpleasantness over this, Lucy? Well, if there is, I'm ready for it. They can't call you as a witness, though, that's one thing. A wife, you know——"

"I would insist on being called. I would force my way in."

Hector stared.

"You—you mean you'd give me away, Lucy? Jeanie Dean's conscience, eh?"

"And I'd lie and lie and lie! I'd go through hell for you, Hector, you can trust me, dear, not to fail you."

Again Hector stared.

"You beat me, Lucy," he said, "you go for me for doing it, and then want to perjure yourself to pull me through. But, look here, indiscriminate lying won't help us, we must have the story pat, and stick to it like bird-lime. Hullo, someone outside, come for me already, have they?"

"It's only Captain Carson, Hector; he said he'd be here, you know, at the half-hour."

"Did he? I forgot. Think he knows, Lucy? I can't remember what I said. I was off my head at the time."

"He knows everything, but he won't speak; you can trust him. Here he is."

"Leave us, Lucy; we must have this out together."

"But you won't lose your temper, Hector, you won't abuse him?"

"Not I, I'm like an angel to-night. Go, Lucy, please," and Lucy went, Peter entering by the other door as the curtain dropped behind her.

"Glad to see you, Peter. Have a drink?"

"No, thank you, Graeme."

"Cigarette, then? No, I know you won't. Fill that old pipe of yours and sit down. Match? Here you are."

A pause.

"Well, Peter?"

"How's Mrs. Graeme?"

"All right, thank you; you've not asked after my health, though."

Another pause.

"So that's what you wanted Cyclops for, Graeme?"

"I'll give you the pick of my stable, if that's what you're after, Peter."

"Was it a sudden idea?"

"No, that afternoon at Fort Hussein. I saw it was the only way, since then I've been waiting. If I'd failed this time I'd have done it later. I knew, though, I shouldn't fail, I meant it, you see."

"Good God!"

"Why do you say that?" burst out the other with sudden passion. "I only did what you and half the others wanted in your hearts. Oh, I'll be candid with you; you know most of it, anyway, and you played the game this afternoon. That fellow was a plague spot, Peter; he was ruining the regiment, though for that I don't care two pins; it was when he put himself up against me that I took a hand. And he did attack me, you know that, Peter, insulted me, blackguarded me behind my back, said I was a coward, and vowed he'd have me out of the regiment."

He paused. Peter said nothing, only watched the other's face, for this was a changed Graeme to him, and, as he looked, he began to understand a thing he had never quite been able to before: how Private Mortlock's body had been recovered that August morning, six months before.

Graeme resumed, in the same tone of concentrated purpose. "Well, Peter; when anyone goes for me, I hit back, not as most do, blow for blow, wasting their strength, but with one blow only, and I take care that one has not to be repeated, Peter, it settles the matter for good and all. That's what I've done with O'Hagan, and that I'll do with anyone or anything which comes up against me. It was him or me; can't you understand? There was no room for us both, I had to kill him, myself, or both. And now you know, what do you propose to do—give me away?

"'And Hector Graeme walked between

With gyves upon his wrist.'

Is that it? Do, if you like and can."

"For God's sake, no levity, man."

"That's another thing. You, and my wife too, seem to expect me to show penitence, to cry over what I've done. Why? I'm glad, not sorry; why should I then pretend a sorrow, like the Walrus with the oysters?"

Peter stared at him, with bewilderment in his eyes, as there had been a few minutes before in Lucy's.

"Because," he said slowly, "because you're a human being, Graeme."

"Well, I don't feel it, not in the slightest degree, and I'm not going to sham."

Carson rose, and for a moment stood looking down at him.

"Graeme," he said, "you and I have been friends since you joined ten years ago, and, well, I stand by my friends, and do not give them away, whatever they do; their actions are matters for their own consciences, not mine. Of this afternoon I'll never speak again; it's a thing, I confess, beyond my understanding; let it remain at that and be buried. Only you—you must see it can never be quite the same between us again; you do see that, don't you?"

"No, I don't."

"I can't help that; it is so, for me, at all events. But one thing I promise you: no one outside shall see it; they must not. We must be careful, for ... your wife's sake. Good-night, Graeme."

"Good-night, Peter."

CHAPTER VIII

The hill station of Chillata lay seething in the summer rains. This queer, rambling place, the hot-weather capital of India, is a collection of houses strewn seemingly haphazard along the crest and slopes of a fir-clad ridge, or rather chain of hills, some three miles in length and many thousand feet above the level of the plains. On all sides of the ridge the ground falls steeply away; on the south towards the plains, a haze-veiled vista of brown flat, stretching unbroken to the horizon; on the north, east and west to a succession of forest-clad hills and valleys, beyond which rises a chain of snow-capped mountains. Running along the crest of the ridge lies the one metalled road, the main artery of the place, bordering which stand the various European dwellings. These are few and far apart towards the western extremity, but increase in number as the road runs on eastward, till finally they merge into the town itself, a heterogeneous mass of shops, Government buildings, and native bazaar.

Such in brief was, and is, Chillata, the summer residence of British official might and majesty in India, and consequently, during that season, the resort of all that is most select and fashionable in the country. In the hot weather of the year 1900, however, thoughts other than those of social pursuits and sport were occupying the minds of most men. The British Empire was at war in distant South Africa, and so far, though close on a year had elapsed since its beginning, no sign of the end was at hand, and the fate of England still rocked in the balance.

Still, even this fact, patent though it was to all, failed to interfere appreciably with Chillata enjoyments, for to human nature it is not public but individual interests that matter; and even a toothache is of far greater moment to him who feels it than the fate of a hundred empires. Thus it came about that, so far from proving a damper, the war acted as a stimulant to the enjoyment of Chillata youth; the ever-present possibility of harrowing partings added zest to love-making between the sexes; waltz tunes gained in enchantment; and hearts thrilled in response to stirring martial ballad.

In high official quarters a somewhat different view prevailed, for here were men with a stake in the country, oldish men to whom waltz tune and martial ballad failed to appeal—their time for that was past. Unlike the others, they, being more largely interested, were able to take a larger view, and thus realised that England's downfall would certainly involve that of India, and consequently their own, a very serious matter indeed. Here faces were grave—the higher the official, the graver the face—as, deaf to the gay glamour rising from the Mall outside, they sat in dingy offices anxiously deliberating or wrestling with increasing correspondence.

In one of these offices, a bare and cheerless apartment, situated in the huge brick edifice forming the Military Offices of Chillata, a man sat busily writing one September morning—a thick-set man, with bristling black hair and round, staring eyes, last seen one August morning in Fort Hussein, now a brigadier in rank and Adjutant-General to the Indian forces. On the table before him lay a pile of letters, fat-looking documents in long official envelopes, both white and blue, most of them marked "Urgent," "Very Urgent," or "Confidential." These he was opening in turn, rapidly reading, and answering on slips of yellow paper, which he carefully pinned to the various documents, and threw into tin trays placed on the floor beside him for removal and subsequent engrossment by his clerks.

A knock at the door was heard. "Come in, come in," he muttered, and Captain de Boudoir, Star Comedian of the Chillata A.D.C., appeared. To prevent the departure of this officer for the plains, and consequent disappointment to the public, he had been retained as staff officer, despite protest, to the Adjutant-General to the Forces, the Intelligence Department—the natural refuge of such as he—being unfortunately full up at the time.

"In an hour, De Boudoir," said Quentin, "I'm not ready for you yet. No, it's no good asking for a morning off; I won't give it you for fifty rehearsals."

"But, sir, this evening, sir, his Excellency's coming. Hoped you would too, sir."

"Bah! You can't go, I tell you. What's that, a card? I won't see him, whoever he is."

"He won't go, sir; it's Captain Pushful; he's here every day."

"What does he want?"

"Usual thing, sir—South Africa."

"Tell him to go to blazes. I have work enough, as it is, without being worried by every fool who wants to go battle-fighting. Confound it, De Boudoir, what the devil's the good of you if you can't——. Hullo! what the—who the dickens is this?" for the door had gently opened, and a head appeared, its eyes beaming upon him.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said an insinuating voice, and thereupon a body followed the head, "but could you spare me a minute? I won't keep you long sir."

"Who the devil are you?"

"My name is Pushful, sir. I think, sir, I'm a connection of yours by marriage. My sister——"

"Turn him out, De Boudoir. Oh, damn it all, this is——"

"My sister Mary, sir, married your second cousin William. 'Boodles' we used to call him, because——"

"Really, sir, I fail to see——"

"And Boodles told me to be sure and look you up."

"Tell me what you want, sir, and go."

"I thought, sir, perhaps you would see your way to get me out to South Africa, and——"

"Send in an application then. Good-day."

"I have, sir, six already."

"Send another then, and I'll consider it."

"Thank you, sir, and you will——"

"Oh yes, yes. Good-day, and De Boudoir," as the door closed behind the visitor, "when that application comes, put it where the others go, in the basket; d'ye understand?"

"Very good, sir, anything more?"

"No. Yes, there is. Do you know a Captain Graeme, 1st Lancers? I thought I saw him the other day."

"Yes, sir; he's here on two months' leave. She's been in Chillata since April, living at Dilkhusha, the house the Pennants had last year."

"If you see him to-day, will you tell him I want him? If you don't, send a note."

"Very well, sir. I'll get my pony, and go there now."

"No, you won't; you'll stay where I can get at you, in your office. Go this afternoon if you like, till then work. That will do, thank you," upon which De Boudoir sorrowfully withdrew, cursing the fate that had placed him here, instead of with his friends in the Intelligence Department.

"I'd like to give the fellow a chance," muttered Quentin; "he was badly treated over that last affair. Colonel would not even recommend him for a transport billet"—for in this way had Schofield saved his face on Hector's refusal—"and he was wrong, I'm sure of it; the fellow's got stuff in him, if it can be got out, that I'll swear, though I only saw him for a few minutes. Well, I'll give it to him, and damn the recommendation." He sat thinking for a moment, then plunged once more into his correspondence.