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Hector Graeme

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Title: Hector Graeme

Creator: Evelyn Brentwood


        
Release date: September 10, 2014 [eBook #46833]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/46833

Credits: Produced by Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HECTOR GRAEME ***




Produced by Al Haines.





                             HECTOR GRAEME


                          BY EVELYN BRENTWOOD



                        TORONTO: BELL & COCKBURN
                        LONDON: JOHN LANE MCMXII




                 THE ANCHOR PRESS LTD., TIPTREE, ESSEX




                            *HECTOR GRAEME*



                                *BOOK I*



                            *Hector Graeme*



                              *CHAPTER I*


The dull November afternoon was fast drawing to a close.  Patches of
white mist lay in the hollows of the elm-dotted park; the outlines of
stately tree and russet copse were rapidly merging into the surrounding
grey.

Already a flicker of light was beginning to appear in the windows of
Radford Hall, the home of Sir Thomas Caldwell, Baronet, a house--like
its owner--solid, sturdy, and unimaginative-looking.  Nearly a mile
away, standing well back from a high ragged hedge of blackthorn, a line
of sportsmen could be seen waiting for the last drive of the day to
commence; behind each stood the waiting figure of a loader, ready with
the second gun.  Listless and inactive as were now these figures, they
would shortly become possessed of a feverish energy; for in the
turnip-field beyond the blackthorn hedge were many partridges, and,
struggle later as they might with obstinate cartridges, their movements
would be far too slow for their impatient masters, who with gun
discharged would view, in helpless wrath, the easiest of shots pass
unscathed overhead.

At one end of the line, comfortably seated on a grouse-stick, a young
man was waiting with the rest.  He was a young man whose face wore a
look of great conceit, this appearance being enhanced by a somewhat
pronounced eccentricity of attire.  There was something about this youth
that struck the observer as unusual; he was in some indescribable manner
different from his fellows, though to the majority of mankind it must be
owned the difference was not of a pleasing kind.  This gentleman was
Lieutenant Hector Graeme, senior subaltern of Her Majesty's 1st Regiment
of Lancers, now on foreign service in India. In accordance with his
usual habit of evading his duties--or so said his enemies, among whom
might be included the greater part of his brother officers--Graeme had
been successful in dodging the troopship; and, having been left behind
with the depot at Canterbury, was on leave from that place and staying
as a guest at Radford Hall, Sir Thomas being an old friend of his
father's.

Standing behind him--for the idea of yielding up his seat had somehow
not occurred to him--was Lucy Caldwell, Sir Thomas' only daughter and
the mistress of his household, he having been a widower for many years.
In her hand she was holding Hector's second gun, her obvious intention
being to act as loader to the fortunate subaltern.  This, it may be
remarked, was a task Lucy was thoroughly capable of performing, the
young lady having been born and bred amongst sportsmen; indeed, there
was little concerning beasts and birds of the field with which she was
not thoroughly familiar.

At the present moment, however, there was a somewhat annoyed expression
on her usually good-tempered face, and her brow was knit as she stood
listening to the shrill "tirwit, tirwit," rising from the turnip-field.

"Most provoking you should have the worst place for this drive, Mr.
Graeme," she said at length; "it will be the best of the day, I know,
and the birds always fly over the centre and right."

"Don't you worry about that, Miss Caldwell," answered Hector; "it's the
luck of the draw; and anyway the birds will come to me all right, you
see if they don't."

"Indeed they will not; they'll make for that field of roots over there,
they always do."

"Not this time, I think.  Birds are curious things; they like coming to
the best shot; and that I am, here anyway. Gad, I don't believe I could
miss to-day.  Confess, Miss Caldwell, you don't often see such shooting
as mine, now do you?"

Lucy frowned.  She had been taught to look upon bragging of any sort as
an impossible thing, and the remark jarred.

"Of course you're a good shot, Mr. Graeme," she said rather coldly; "but
it's hardly necessary to proclaim the fact, is it?  As for the birds
coming to you, you may know better than I do.  I've lived here
twenty-one years, it's true, but----"

A sudden whir of wings cut her short, and away past Graeme sped an old
French partridge, which was out of sight in the dusk behind before he
had time to raise his gun.

"Damn!" said Hector, "what did I tell you?  Beg pardon, Miss Caldwell,
but that's rather annoying, an old Frenchman too; probably played that
game many times before.  Clean defeat, and I don't like it.  Hullo,
they've started," as through a gap in the hedge before them a distant
line of white flags could be seen advancing.  "Now, be quiet, like a
good girl, and I promise you some fancy shooting."

"Over," "over," came faintly from the advancing flags, followed some
seconds later by a humming sound, rapidly growing louder, till with a
roar a large covey of birds topped the blackthorn hedge, and then,
seeing Graeme, broke up and scattered in all directions.  A breathless
moment followed, the air resounding with the crack of guns and whirring
of wings, and then silence.

"How many down, Mr. Graeme?" gasped Lucy, struggling with a stuck
cartridge.

"Three, for goodness' sake keep count or we shan't know where we are.
Notice that last shot of mine, by the way?  Sixty yards at least, and
stone dead.  No.  Pity. Look out, there are more coming, straight to me
as usual."  Another right and left.  "Oh, please be quicker.  Damn, my
guns are getting red hot.  See these four coming? I'll have 'em all,
hanged if I don't."  Two double shots followed, and then a cry of
exultation.  "Done it, by the Lord!  What price De Grey now?  I told you
I couldn't miss.  Only hope the others are looking, particularly old
Persian War.  Wish he was next me; I'd give a fiver to wipe his eye.
How many down?  Thirty I make it."

"Twenty-seven, Mr. Graeme, one a runner."

"Runner, not it.  I'm not dealing in runners to-day. All dead as stones.
There are two more for you," as a brace came swinging over and were
promptly crumpled up dead in the air.  "That makes twenty-nine by your
counting, thirty-two by mine.  Hang! here are the beaters, and the day's
over.  How many down, Fox?" to a keeper who had now come up.
"Thirty-two all dead."

"Gum, but that's good shooting," answered Fox, while a murmur of
approbation arose from a cluster of smock-frocked beaters.  "Thought I
saw someone a-cutting of 'em down, sir, and I said as 'ow I thought it
must be the Captain.  Only 'ope the other gentlemen 'ave done as well.
Hi, Rover, seek lost, good dawg, good dawg.  Ah, drop it, now, would
you?  Oh, thankye, sir, thankye very much," and the tactful Fox's hand
closed on a five-pound note, a golden sovereign being likewise bestowed
on the cluster of approving smock-frocks.

The courtiers thus rewarded, Graeme turned to Lucy. "And now we'll walk
home across the park," he said; "no use waiting for the waggonette, what
do you say, Miss Caldwell?"

"I don't think I will, Mr. Graeme.  You go if you like. I must get back
to make the tea.  You know what my uncle is, if he's kept waiting."

"Do him good; he's a great deal too autocratic that old uncle of yours;
thinks he's still commanding troops in Bugglaboo, or whatever his
infernal Indian station was."

"Mr. Graeme!"

"Beg pardon, Miss Caldwell, but never mind him.  Come along, we'll be
home as soon as they are if we start now."

Lucy hesitated.  She wanted to go, and for that very reason, being a
woman, pretended she did not.  The idea, moreover, though pleasing, was
nevertheless in some unaccountable way rather alarming; for though
ordinarily a walk home with one of her father's guests, however late the
hour, would have caused her no qualms, with Graeme, it was different.
She had known him but three weeks, and yet in that short time he had
come to occupy a place in her thoughts, and, what was worse, to control
her actions in a manner most disquieting to a girl as independent and
freedom-loving as Lucy Caldwell.  This too in spite of the fact that
both her father and uncle, the General, had little liking for Mr.
Graeme, and were, she knew, secretly rejoicing in the knowledge that he
was leaving Radford Hall next day.  Hector also was aware of this, and
of the feelings of the rest of the house-party; but, having been
accustomed to unpopularity since his childhood, their hostility
disturbed him not at all.

"Better come, Miss Caldwell," he urged.  "See, they'll be ages before
they start.  It's my last evening here too; I think you might."

Upon which Lucy decided that her reluctance was both prudish and absurd.

"Very well, Mr. Graeme," she answered; "just wait a minute, though, and
I'll ask Mr. Robson to let my father know."  This done, the two started
on their walk, Lucy setting the pace, which was that of a good four
miles an hour.

"Where's Lucy, Tom?" said the General, some ten minutes later, as, the
bag having been inspected, the two moved off towards the waiting
waggonette.

"She'll be here in a minute; she was down at the other end of the line.
The last I saw of her she was helping Graeme to collect his birds.  Gad,
that fellow can shoot, Charles, quite like one of those fellows you read
about in the _Badminton Library_."

"Yes, and we shall hear all about it to-night too--every blessed shot he
made, and why he missed.  Conceited, bumptious jackanapes."

"Curious thing old Jack Graeme having a son like that, one of the best,
old Jack.  Must take after his mother, I suppose, she was a queer wild
sort--wrong too."

"He's not Jack's son at all; you know that well enough, Tom.  Crawford
was this fellow's father."

"Surely, you don't believe that old scandal, Charles?"

"Of course I do, this fellow's the dead spit of Crawford. The only
difference between them is that he was a devilish good soldier, one of
the best we had in the army.  I didn't like the fellow, but I'll say
that for him.  This chap, though, is a waster, so his regiment say.
They can't stand him there, and that, as you know, Tom, is a bad sign, a
damn bad sign."

"I hope Lucy hasn't taken a fancy to him.  It's worrying me a lot,
Charles."

"Not she, she's far too sensible.  If she did, we'd have to stop it,
that's all.  I tell you, Tom, I'd sooner see the girl in a convent,
or--yes, I would--dead, begad, than see her married to that fellow."

"Oh come, Charles."

"Yes, I would.  There's something wrong about the chap; he sets me all
on edge; he----  Hullo, Robson, seen my niece?"

"She's walking home with Graeme, General, asked me to let you know.  She
said she'd be at the house before the waggonette."

"Oh!" said Sir Thomas.

"Damn!" muttered the General.

                     *      *      *      *      *

Meantime the pair under discussion were making their way homewards
across the park, Lucy rather silent, Hector discoursing on Hector and
that person's recent achievements. He was feeling particularly pleased
with himself this evening, and, as a result, more than a little kindly
towards his companion.  At length, even the topic of self was exhausted,
and a sudden rather awkward pause ensued, whereupon Lucy managed to find
her voice.

"When do you expect to join your regiment in India, Mr. Graeme," she
said, "soon, I suppose, now?  How you must be looking forward to it."

Graeme's face clouded.  "Next September, I believe, that is, if I do go
out.  Don't think I shall, though, I've more than half a mind to send in
my papers and cut the whole show."

"Surely not, Mr. Graeme, at your age.  What on earth would you do with
yourself?  You couldn't idle for the rest of your life."

"Couldn't I?  I could idle very well, Miss Caldwell, besides, I should
always find plenty to do with shooting, hunting, and golf.  Those are my
interests, and pretty good ones too, I think."

"But surely a mere life of sport wouldn't content you. Don't you want to
get on in your profession?  Really, Mr. Graeme, I cannot understand a
man holding such views."

"Perhaps not, but it's a fact all the same.  I've no wish to get on, as
you call it, indeed I loathe soldiering.  What's the good of it after
all, what can it lead to?  I've no doubt if I chose I could be as good a
soldier as any of them, but I don't choose.  It's a life of slavery, the
army, it's being at the beck and call of every silly fool who happens to
have more gold lace on his hat than you have; and then the end--to
become a general, a snuffy, purple-faced old ass, like----"

"Like whom, Mr. Graeme?"

"Oh, like Grampus, my present lord at Canterbury, who, when he gives a
luncheon party, has the lot of us strutting past him on foot parade to
show his importance and amuse his lady friends."

"But all generals are not like that, Mr. Graeme."

"All I've met.  It's a natural consequence too, I suppose.  When a man's
young and in full possession of his faculties he's only a humble captain
or major, but as he approaches imbecility he rises in rank, till in the
height of senile decay he becomes a general."

"Mr. Graeme, you forget, I think, that my uncle's a----"

"He, of course, is one of the exceptions you just mentioned," said
Hector with a rather nasty chuckle.

"Mr. Graeme, you're horrid; I don't wonder people dislike you."

"More do I, though perhaps if you'd been brought up as I have you'd be
horrid too."

"What do you mean?"

Graeme hesitated for a moment, frowning, and then burst out, with a ring
of passion in his voice:

"You've had a happy life.  Miss Caldwell, parents who have been parents,
I've not.  My father, for some reason, would never look at me, while my
mother alternately petted and neglected me.  She was a queer being, my
mother, mad on spiritualism and such like, and what's more used to drag
me into her experiments.  She said I was clairvoyant."

"Good heavens, Mr. Graeme, what an awful thing for a woman to do.  I beg
your pardon; I forget it's your mother I'm speaking of."

"Say what you like; I don't care.  I hated her when she was alive, and
do now she's dead.  It's played the devil with me, Miss Caldwell.  I
used to lie awake at night often and shriek with terror, and I'm not
much better now at times.  That's the way I was brought up, nobody to
care twopence about me; and gradually I got not to care too, till now I
think I hate everybody just as they do me."

"Oh, surely, not everybody," began Lucy, and then stopped suddenly.  At
something in her voice, Graeme turned and looked at her, a queer thrill
of excitement running through him.  He tried to see her face, but it was
turned from him; the feeling of excitement grew, and his heart began to
beat fast.

For some time he too had been conscious of a growing feeling of
attraction towards this girl; more, he felt himself to be in love with
her--a not unusual experience, by the way, for Hector, to whom all
feminine creatures were as magnets to his iron.  This feeling, however,
though materially contributing to the enjoyment of the past three weeks,
had hitherto not been regarded by him as serious, indeed, the idea of
proposing to Lucy Caldwell had never once presented itself to him.  Now
the charms of such a proceeding suddenly occurred to him.  The
isolation, in which he had hitherto gloried, seemed no longer desirable
but hateful, and with this came a sudden longing for sympathy and the
love denied him in his childhood.  It would be glorious, he thought, to
have someone to care for him; to be interested in what he did, to have a
home of his own instead of the Mess, which he hated; and straightway
Hector made up his mind to do it, and, flinging prudence to the winds,
spoke.

"Miss Caldwell, Lucy, is there anyone who cares?"

"I--I shouldn't think so.  I--I don't know."

"Do you care?--because I do.  I--I love you most--damnably."

"Most damnably?"

"Yes, and if you'll marry me--I've meant to ask you for a long time, but
I've funked it before.  I'm not much of a catch, I know.  I'll try and
be different.  I could be, I think, if you took me in hand.  For God's
sake say you will, Lucy."

"But are you sure, Hector?  Do you really mean it? Oh, I never said you
might, and look, there's an owl flown by; he saw us, I know he did.  You
might have waited till he'd gone.  He has gone now, Hector."

                     *      *      *      *      *

The four miles an hour dwindled down to a bare half. The darkness
deepened, owing to which possibly they lost their way, turning east
instead of west.  Away from the Hall they wandered, oblivious of a
purple-faced gentleman who was awaiting them there, and whose wrath was
rapidly rising as he viewed the still mistressless tea-table.




                              *CHAPTER II*


The fair valley of Kashmir lay drowsing in the August sunshine--a strip
of green and gold nestling amid a waste of rocky mountains. All around
rose the great hills, bare and sun-scorched for the most part towards
the west and south--at which point enters the main road from India--but
to the east draped with heavy mantles of fir and towering pine; far
away, a glittering rampart of eternal snow and ice, the great mass of
the Himalayas barred the way to the north, its jagged peaks and saw-like
ridges fretting the deep cloudless blue of the sky.

Over the valley itself, now a riotous waste of colour, hung a shimmering
vale of heat; through the warm heavy air, drowsy with the perfume of a
thousand blossoms, gaudy dragon-flies darted to and fro, or hung poised
with tremulous vibration of gauzy wings; while here and there orange and
purple butterflies drifted lazily from flower to flower.  Tiny rivulets
murmured sleepily, as they threaded their way through woods of chestnut,
apple and pear, interspersed with patches of golden millet and Indian
corn, the sole worldly wealth of some Kashmiri husbandman, the roof of
whose hut might be seen peering through the surrounding clump of trees.

Born in the snowy mountains to the north, the river Jhelum winds its way
southwards through the centre of the valley, passing through the great
lake of Kashmir, a vast sheet of burnished silver, on the still surface
of which lie masses of coral-pink lotus.  Onward the river crawls,
lapping in sleepy caress the wooden piles and temple-steps of Srinagar,
the country's capital, a ramshackle cluster of wooden, chalet-like
houses, built on both sides of the river. Still half-asleep, it creeps
on for some hundred miles through a land golden with crops and bright
with flowers and fruit, on past Baramoula, the terminus of the tonga
service from Rawal Pindi, and out by a gorge in the mountains, through
which lies the road to India and the south.  Then it awakes, and hemmed
in by jutting crag and precipice, its course vexed by boulder and
quicksand, becomes henceforth a wild torrent, roaring its way onward to
Mother Indus and the sea.

Following a rough track leading eastward from Baramoula, and steadily
rising as he goes, the traveller passes through some fifteen miles of
thinly-wooded country, broken by fields of scanty millet and maize, till
at length a large wooden temple is reached, situated in a clearing at
the foot of a steep fir-clad ridge.  Leaving this behind, he plunges
into dense forest, and after an hour's stiff climb reaches the summit,
where suddenly and unexpectedly he comes upon a native bazaar of rough
wooden huts overlooking an expanse of grassy plain.  Roughly circular in
shape, this plain is girt on all sides with a thick belt of sombre firs,
beyond which again tower the mountains.  All around, either just inside
the girdle of trees or at its edge, are dotted small wooden houses and
clusters of white tents, while in the centre of the plain rises a large
and more pretentious-looking edifice, around which one August afternoon
a numerous and gaily-dressed crowd was to be seen assembled.

This is Shiraz, the hill-station of Kashmir, and here, when the valley
below has become impossible owing to the heat and mosquitoes, flock the
English visitors and officials of the country--both black and white.
The houses and tents surrounding the plain, or Murg as it is called, are
their temporary homes, while the building in the centre is the focus of
Shiraz social life, serving indiscriminately as club, library, cricket
or polo pavilion.

No ordinary event, however, was responsible for to-day's gathering of
notabilities, no pagal gymkhana or crumpet snatch, but something much
more serious, namely, the finals of the Shiraz Polo championship, and
hence the brightest and best of frocks and frills were here on view,
while hats and parasols were positively dazzling in their splendour.

Moreover, an additional incentive had been given to good fellowship, for
was not Lady Wilford, the wife of Sir Reginald Wilford, K.C.S.I.,
K.C.I.E. etc, etc., and present Resident of Kashmir, At Home this August
afternoon?  And no experienced Anglo-Indian lady will, as is well known,
forego the delights of a free tea, nor for that matter, of any
entertainment, for which someone else pays.  Indeed, even one modest
rupee gate money has been known in that country to frighten away the
fair sex altogether from race-meetings, gymkhana or polo match.  To-day,
however, there was no such vexatious bar to pleasure, and hence it came
about that all was light-hearted enjoyment and hilarity.

Mrs. Twiddell, wife of Major Twiddell of the Supply and Transport Corps,
now absent in the plains, looked radiant as she chattered away to her
best friend, Mrs. Passy Snorter.  True, she had a grievance, though you
might not have thought it, the said grievance being the reason that
necessitated the wearing of her present attire of pink, instead of one
of the ravishing confections of which she had so often made mention.

"Looks charming?" she said prettily, "sweet of you to try and comfort
me, dear; it's Paris I know, but such a rag now, poor old pink.  So
annoying of my husband not to send my boxes up in time;" and her friend,
as she sympathetically agreed, wondered how dear Mrs. T. could be such a
liar, for had not she--and for that matter all Shiraz--observed the
lady's dhirzi[#] stitching away at the despised pink for the last three
days in the Twiddell verandah?  She could even have told to an anna what
the said garment had cost, and the wrangle there had been over the
price. She further wondered, incidentally, whether Jack Twiddell had yet
paid his club bill at Riwala, for Mrs. Snorter's husband was the
secretary of that institution, and told his wife many valuable secrets
anent mutual friends.


[#] Native tailor.


Lieutenant Crawler of the 1st Kala Jugas was evidently in his element
as, blade of grass in mouth, he discoursed on the merits of the rival
teams.  Crawler, it is true, bestrode a pony for the first time in his
life six months ago on joining his regiment, but he had a good deal to
say on the subject of horsemanship, and was expressing his doubts as to
the "hands" of most of the competitors.  He went on to compare polo with
hunting, and indulged in personal reminiscences of the Quorn and
Pytchley, of which packs he had read in the papers.  Important-looking
officials for the nonce laid aside cares of State, and turned
condescending ear to the trivial discourse of military acquaintances, or
beamed seductively on feminine admirers.  The Maharajah Sahib, his
retinue of sable followers grouped around him, looked calmly on the
scene, now and again bending courteously to some female flatterer, the
expression in his dark eyes contrasting strangely with his respectful,
almost humble, salutations.

There was a stir--and sudden commotion amongst the crowd.  Polo was
about to begin, and away surged the chattering throng, making hurriedly
for the rows of chairs lining one side of the ground.

The game to be played this afternoon promised to be an exciting one, the
rival players being a scratch quartette, calling themselves the Dragon
Flies, and four of the 1st Lancers who happened to be in Shiraz on
leave.  The Lancers were in no sense representative of their corps, one
of their number only, Ferrers, the captain, being a member of the
regular regimental team, but, as they were better mounted than their
opponents, and having had a fair amount of practice together while in
Shiraz, they were quite confident of success.  The other three were
Kinley, Carruthers, and Graeme.  The Dragon Flies, however, were
opponents not to be despised.  True, their ponies were slow in
comparison with those of the Lancers, but against this they were handy
and well trained, and knew the game as well as their owners.  The men
also, though hailing from different regiments, and being at the
disadvantage of not knowing each other's idiosyncrasies, were with one
exception individually far better players than their adversaries, Major
Rocket, the captain, being generally considered one of the best Number
Twos, if not the best, in India.

The above-mentioned exception was the "One"--Lieutenant Gubbins of the
105th Native Foot, who, though extremely keen, was a far from expert
performer, and had a rooted aversion to keeping in his proper place.  He
had promised, however, on this afternoon to amend his ways, to leave the
tempting ball to Number Two, and devote his energies solely to hampering
the back--and these promises Gubbins, before starting, had every
intention of keeping.

Some distance away from the chattering crowd, watching the saddling of a
fine grey Arab pony, stood Graeme and his wife Lucy, for despite the
scoffing incredulity of those who knew, or thought they knew, Hector the
proposal made that November evening--nearly two years ago--had been duly
ratified, and after an engagement of six months the two had been quietly
married in Radford church.

There had been opposition, bitter opposition too. Sir Thomas, the
General, indeed, the whole of Lucy's relations, having resolutely
opposed the match.  In vain, however, their efforts had merely succeeded
in turning Hector's somewhat indefinite intentions into a fixed resolve.
Even Lucy was surprised at the strength of purpose shown by her lover,
and, warmly seconding him, between them they finally overcame her
father's opposition, though never that of her uncle.  The latter for a
long time refused to meet Hector, and, but for the reluctance to cause
pain to his niece, would undoubtedly have refused to appear at the
wedding.  So far, the general anticipation of disaster had been
singularly at fault; the marriage had turned out a happy one, Hector
proving himself a good and considerate husband, while, far from sliding
back into former ways, he had flown to the other extreme and become a
Puritan, bitterly intolerant of even the mildest lapse from conjugal
duty.  This, as might be imagined, had not served to increase his
popularity, and it was almost universally agreed that, though
objectionable enough before his marriage, since that event he had become
altogether impossible, and great was the commiseration bestowed on that
dear pretty little woman who had the misfortune to be tied to such an
ill-conditioned prig.

"The dear pretty little woman," however, stood in no need of their
sympathy, being, on the contrary, perfectly and entirely happy.  She
adored Hector, admired him for his principles, so different from those
of other men, and, generally speaking, thought him the most wonderful
person in the world.  At the present moment she was listening with
interest, her arm through his, as he discoursed on polo, more
particularly on the part he was likely to take in the forthcoming
contest.

Hector's love for this game, though of somewhat recent growth, had
become the temporary master-passion of his existence, and to the
acquirement of proficiency in it he had flung himself with the violence
and concentration of purpose that were usual with him on taking up a new
hobby. At home, it is true, he had shown no interest in the subject; it
was a feeble game, he had been wont to declare, and one much too easy to
play to be worth the learning.  Since his arrival in India, however, he
had come to regard the matter in a different light.  Here everybody
played polo; indeed, it was looked upon as the one serious business of
life, bar love-making, and straightway it had become Hector's business
too.  Never would he admit that there could be anything in the way of
sports or games at which he could not excel if he chose, and he set to
work to provide himself with ponies, first-class tournament ponies too;
he would look at nothing else.  He had now six, bought at a price far
beyond his means, the purchase of which had necessitated the assistance
of Ram Lai, the native banker of Riwala, and this done, and all other
pursuits abandoned for the nonce, he laid himself out to learn the game.

Henceforth his conversation, his thoughts, his very dreams were of polo,
while his contempt for and intolerance of those who had no liking for
the pursuit were unbounded. Morning and evening he could be seen
assiduously practising shots on the disused drill-ground at the back of
his Riwala bungalow, while in odd moments he would employ the saises,
khitmagars, and on one occasion--though Lucy had immediately
intervened--the cook, in throwing him balls from every direction, while
he, astride on a wooden horse, drove the said balls all over the
compound.  The result of all this was on the whole gratifying, the
progress he made being generally conceded to be remarkable, though this
verdict was usually qualified by the remark that his proficiency was
mainly due to the excellence of his ponies. "Anyone could play who was
so well mounted as that bounder Graeme," men were wont to observe, for
in India, even more than elsewhere, possessions in excess of one's
neighbours are wont to evoke caustic remarks.

Whether this were true or not, Graeme was now able to hold his own in
most companies, and was anticipating a veritable triumph this afternoon,
when he intended to show the spectators how polo should be played, even
though by a novice.  His conversation was brought to an end by the loud
ringing of a bell, followed by the appearance of Ferrers, fussy and
important, summoning his men to the fray.  With a hasty farewell to
Lucy, and final examination of his stirrup-leathers, Hector mounted the
grey pony and cantered into the field, where the rival teams were drawn
up in two lines facing each other.

After some delay, owing to young Gubbins' endeavours to secure a flying
start, the ball was at length thrown in between the lines by the umpire,
and the battle for the Cup had begun.

Straightway arose a confused _melee_ of sticks and ponies, followed by
much wild hitting, much missing, and considerable dangerous riding,
Graeme being neatly bowled over by Gubbins before three minutes had
elapsed.  All were anxious to hit the ball, no matter where, so long as
they hit it, though the general tendency indubitably lay in the
direction of the gallery, where the various divinities sat enthroned,
watching the doings of their own particular twin souls.

For the first two chukkers there was no score, though this, it must be
owned, was chiefly due to the mistaken zeal of the Dragon Flies' Number
One, who, forgetful of his good intentions, persisted in trying to hit
goals of which he was incapable, instead of devoting his energies to the
opposing back and leaving the job to Major Rocket.  Had it not been for
this, the score would by this time have been very heavy against the
Lancers.  In the third chukker the disaster so long impending occurred.
Rocket, who in the interval had spoken very seriously to Gubbins, at
length secured the ball, and with a resounding smack lifted it well over
the opposing back's head, when it rolled to within twenty-five yards of
the Lancers' goal.  Ferrers--the back in question--turned, and slipping
the enemy's Number One, made for the ball and ... missed it, leaving
Gubbins the chance of his life.

Exultantly the youth raised his stick, and was about to add one more to
his already lengthy list of failures, when his arm was paralysed by a
roar from behind of "Leave it, you infernal young idiot, leave it, out
of the way, confound you!"  Though hurt at being thus addressed, the
more so as the opprobrious epithet must have reached the owner of a
certain pink parasol in the gallery yonder, Gubbins this time managed to
restrain his ardour, and obediently sheering off to one side was
rewarded by hearing a good clean crack behind him, as the skilful Rocket
sent the ball whizzing through the Lancers' goal-post.  Instantly arose
loud and prolonged applause from the excited gallery, and thus
encouraged the Dragon Flies set to work with a will, and by the end of
the chukker had scored again twice.

Three to love, two more chukkers to go, and their opponents flushed with
success--truly, a bad business for the cavalry team; and faces were
troubled and brows gloomy, as they rode slowly away to change their
ponies.  So far Hector had not distinguished himself.  His early upset
at the hands of Gubbins had ruffled him badly, and, this disaster having
been followed by frequent defeats at the hands of the tricky Rocket, he
had finally lost his temper in earnest, with consequent evil results to
his play.  The recent reverses, however, had affected him very
differently from his companions.  They were disheartened; he, on the
contrary, was thirsting for revenge, and more than ever determined to
win the contest, even if it meant the riding down of each individual
member of the enemy in turn--indeed, his tactics in the last chukker had
evoked more than one indignant cry of "Foul!"

He was now gloomily debating in his mind on whom to commence operations
when he came upon the other three standing together, and at sight of the
despondency on their faces wrath boiled up in Hector's breast.

"What the devil are you looking so sick for, all of you?" he said
angrily.  "What if they have got three goals, we can beat them all
right.  Damme, I'll give you this pony, if we don't!"

They stared at him, and, as they looked, something in his face caused
theirs to brighten, and hope once more to dawn in their hearts.  In the
hour of adversity man will cling to the rottenest straw, but here was a
rock, solid and unmoved by the seas in which they were drowning.

"What do you suggest then, Graeme?" said Ferrers, after a pause,
oblivious of the fact that he, the hero of many contests, was now asking
advice of a novice, of one, moreover, whom he had been wont to consider
a fool, so true it is that mere skill and experience must ever bow to
strength of personality.

"Do?" said Graeme, seizing the reins of government thus abandoned.
"Why, go for them, attack all we know, not merely try to prevent them
scoring, as we've been doing up till now.  Look here, Ferrers, I'll take
charge: you go up 'Two,' I'll take your place at 'Three.'  Now, come on,
and remember what I say.  Force the game for all you're worth.  Knock
'em over, doesn't matter, but win we will."

Thus saying, and without a word of protest from his erstwhile captain,
Hector led the way into the field, and once more the game started; but
this time a very different state of affairs was manifest.  The Dragon
Flies, so far from attacking now, were soon solely occupied in the
endeavour to save their goal from the furious and repeated attacks of
the Lancers.  For some time they were successful, but the latter would
not be denied, and quite outclassing their opponents at length triumphed
over the defence, the goal being followed by a second, scored just as
the bell rang.  Two goals to three, one more chukker to go, and the
excitement in the gallery rising, which excitement increased to frenzy
when Carruthers in the next few minutes scored one more goal for the
Lancers.

Then an unlooked-for misfortune befell them, for Gubbins, by some happy
accident, managed to fluke a subsidiary, and for a moment demoralisation
again hovered over the cavalry team.  Graeme, however, rallied his men
in time, and for a while the game surged equally backwards and forwards
up the ground; but a few minutes only remained, and hope was rapidly
dying in the hearts of the Lancers' supporters when the last chance
arrived.  Graeme slipped the opposing Number Three, and securing the
ball drove it clean and hard up the ground; galloping on, he followed
this up by another not quite so straight, the ball rising in the air and
settling within thirty yards of the Dragon Flies' goal.  There it lay, a
fair white sphere, right in front of Ferrers; a possible near-side shot,
but most unlikely.

With passionate, strained attention Hector watched Ferrers' approach,
his whole will-power concentrated on the striker, till the surrounding
world, the roar of the crowd, the thud of galloping hoofs had passed
from sight and hearing, and nothing remained save that flying figure
before him.  "You shall not miss it," he breathed, "you shall not."  He
saw the uplifted arm descend, he heard a great shouting, mingled with
the clang of the time-bell, and then for a moment all was darkness,
till, the mists slowly lifting from his brain, he found himself alone,
some fifty yards away from the ground, his pony heaving and gasping
beneath him.  For a moment he sat, gazing vacantly around, and then,
dismounting, slipped his arm through the reins, and led the sweating
beast back to the waiting sais.

No one noticed his movements, every one being too excited by the recent
sensational finish, and engaged in the laudation of Ferrers, who was the
hero of the hour.  Justly too, for such a shot at such a crisis had
never before been witnessed on the Shiraz ground.  Even Crawler was
mollified and expressed satisfaction with the play on the whole, though
he was of opinion that the Lancers, being better mounted, ought to have
won by more, and would probably have done so but for Graeme, who, he
noticed, had hardly once struck the ball.  He was inclined to think that
Ferrers' shot was a fluke, and this remark having given rise to some
difference of opinion, the hero himself was approached and asked to give
an account of the circumstance.  This proved somewhat vague and
unsatisfactory.

"Truth is, you fellows," he said, "I really don't remember much about
it.  I recollect seeing the ball sittin' there, and thinking how bally
awful it'd be to miss the beastly thing, and then, well, then I found
I'd scored a goal. Rather extraordinary feelin' it was, couldn't do it
again, I know."

"Rot, old boy," said Kinley, known in his regiment as "Porky," on
account of his appearance and appetite, "of course you could do it
again.  Tell you what, give you a dozen tries now, and back you for a
quid a time.  Who'll take?"

A chorus of assent arose, for the wise always took up Porky's bets.  A
move was made back to the polo ground, and the ball placed in its former
position, the succeeding events resulting in the speculator's return to
his quarters an hour later a poorer man by twelve golden sovereigns.
"Silly fool I was," he mused as he went, "but then I always am a silly
fool over the bets I make."

Graeme also came in for a share of the general applause, it being agreed
that he had played well; quite wonderfully for a beginner, though of
course he wanted experience and knowledge of the game.  Still, he had
not been the weakness they expected.  Ferrers went even further,
declaring that Graeme had been the stay of their side, and though, when
the first feelings of gratitude had worn off, he recanted somewhat, he
now proclaimed the fact aloud and announced his intention of proceeding
forthwith to Mrs. Graeme to inform her of his opinion.  Lucy, however,
was not to be found, for she had seen that to which the others were
blind, and had flown forthwith across the ground to where Hector was
standing slowly donning his coat and sweater.

"What is it, Hector, what's the matter?" she said, looking anxiously at
the drawn haggard face and tired eyes.

"Nothing's the matter, Lucy.  What should there be? I'm a bit done,
that's all."

"But I saw you reel; it was just after Mr. Ferrers scored that last
goal, I thought for a moment you were going to fall.  Oh, this polo's
too much for you, Hector."

"Fit of giddiness, that's all, I used to be subject to them, you know.
I'm all right now; let's go home.  What did you think of the game?"

"You played splendidly, all of you did."

"What about Ferrers' play?"

"He was wonderful, Hector, but then of course he's an old hand.  When
you've played as long as he has you'll be quite as good, much better, I
think.  But here we are at the house, I'll just ask for a brandy and
soda, and then we'll go up to dress.  There's a big dinner on to-night,
you know.  I wish there was not, I should like you to go to bed, oh, why
not, Hector?  I can easily arrange it with Lady Wilford."

Graeme, however, though anathematising the dinner-party, refused to
retire, and an hour afterwards was seated at Sir Reginald's hospitable
board, where a large and festive company was assembled, all chattering
of polo and the great contest of the afternoon.  Hector took little part
in the conversation, but sat silent and moody, the efforts of his
partner, a light-hearted grass-widow, being wholly powerless to rouse
him to the smallest semblance of interest. Even Lucy, watching him in
the intervals of lively play with Mr. Carruthers, at length grew
indignant, as she noted his air of deep abstraction.  She felt sorry for
Mrs. Loveall, whose face by this time wore a look of boredom and
chagrin, though it is true she would equally have hated that flirtatious
lady, had Hector responded in the slightest degree to her overtures.

If he was tired, why had he not gone to bed, as she suggested?  That
would have been infinitely better than putting in an appearance with the
sole object, it seemed, of acting as damper on the general enjoyment.
The other men were no doubt tired also, but they had the manners to
disguise the fact; why could not Hector be like the rest, and make an
effort as they were doing?  There, he was yawning; she would like to
have shaken him.  Graeme, however, persisted in his offence, and if he
had succeeded in boring his partner, she in return had well-nigh
maddened him.  In fact, an almost irresistible impulse to flee was
rapidly coming over him; a wild longing to escape from the lights and
chattering crowd and calm his shattered nerves in the cool night air.  A
few minutes more, and he would have done so, but fortunately for his own
and Lucy's credit the signal for release came at length; whereupon
Hector sprang up, and, leaving Mrs. Loveall to find her handkerchief and
other fallen trifles as best she might, made for the open window and
fled out into the night, where he stood breathing deep sighs of relief.
At his feet slept the now deserted Murg, glistening like some great lake
in the light of the full moon.  At its edge the huts and tents looked
white against the background of shadowy forest and gloomy pine-clad
hill, while far away a vision of unearthly beauty glittered faintly, the
white splendour of the snows, a spirit city of minarets and spires in a
setting of blue.  Over all lay the spell of a dead world, that strange
haunting influence breathed by the moon wherein two elements are
commingled, seemingly apart yet inextricably interfused, the one death
and the other love.  For, though from a perished universe it comes, it
is not gloom but passion it stirs in most human hearts, and in this
alliance of Azrael and Eros can be read the great secret of the
world--that death is but the passing to another birth, and, without
love, birth cannot be.

It was not of the latter that Hector was thinking now, but of that
something within him, revealed that afternoon--though but in a paltry
game.  He knew now, ignore it though he might, that he was not quite as
others were, that his was that strange gift of nature--will-power,
personal magnetism, call it what you please--the possession of which
marks the difference between those who lead and the herd which follows.
And as he stood there, with the majesty of sleeping mountain and plumed
forest around him, their greatness spoke to that something within him,
reproaching it, and at its voice the curious restlessness and discontent
born of the afternoon's awakening swelled to a flood of bitter
self-contempt.  How great was all this, and how very small he and his
present aims.  Vague longings came over him, a desire for the
unattainable, for that it surely was.  He, a married man, whose course
of life was chosen--a life devoted to games and sport.

For a moment the idea of studying his profession came to him, but at the
thought his mind instantly revolted. The _role_ of smart soldier had no
charms for Graeme; that he knew required a different nature from his, an
unimaginative, methodical character, one content to follow the path
dictated, not to proceed to the goal by short cuts, as he had done, and
always would do, to the annoyance of his military superiors.  No, he
would leave that to such as Ferrers and Rocket, both reckoned promising
candidates for advancement, the former being Adjutant of his regiment,
the latter Brigade-Major to the Inspector-General of Cavalry.  They were
and always would be followers; as for him, he would be leader or
nothing.

Well, perhaps his chance would be given him; it always was.  Even now
there were rumours of trouble on the frontier, and he might be sent.  He
would be, he would move heaven and earth, and then...  "Damn, why the
devil can't they leave me alone?  Who is it?  Oh, you. Lucy, do you want
me?"

"Yes; what an unsociable person you are to rush away like this,
everybody's gone home.  Oh, what a lovely night; look at that moon; it
reminds me of board ship. Do you remember?"

"Ship, what ship?  Oh yes, of course, exactly like.  The crowd too about
the same in intelligence as that lot in there."

"Why do you sneer at them, Hector, what's the matter with you this
evening?"

"Oh, nothing, only I'm sick to death of this chatter of polo.  Hang it,
to hear them talk one would think Ferrers had won the V.C. instead of
scoring a miserable goal in a match."

"Surely, Hector, it's a little small to be jealous."

"I'm not jealous, Lucy, and what seems to me small is this raving about
a mere game.  Hang it, there are other things in life besides polo."

Lucy was silent.  Accustomed as she was to her husband's frequent
changes, this was a little too sudden and unaccountable.  She
endeavoured to fall in with his mood, however.

"Perhaps you're right, Hector, though I don't think you're quite fair.
You know, I've often wished you to take a more serious view of things,
your profession, for instance, but you've always snubbed me when I
began."

"Bah, my profession."

"Well, why not, surely it's a good enough one for any man?  And I
believe, Hector, I really do, that you could be as good a soldier as any
of them if you worked, perhaps even be adjutant after Mr. Ferrers, and
in time command the regiment.  Oh, I should love you to command the
regiment."

"And after that, Lucy?"

"Oh well, that's as high as I go.  I think I should then like you to
retire, and perhaps go into Parliament."

"Colonel Graeme, M.P., Lord, what dizzy heights, Lucy."

"Don't sneer, Hector, I mean it, but you'll have to work.  I'll take you
in hand myself when we return to Riwala.  Till then you may play as much
as you like. And now I've got some news for you.  How would you like to
shoot a bear?"

"Bear, where is he?"

"About twelve miles from here, I believe.  A native's just come in to
tell Sir Reginald, I don't think he much believes in the story, though;
he says these Kashmiris are such liars it would be only waste of time
going.  Still, I think we might persuade him if you'd care for it."

"Rather, of course I would," said Hector, and perchance at the sudden
return to mundane interests the great mountains and forests laughed,
quietly derisive, for well they knew the resistless force of which they,
like him, were but the phenomena, and how--make what plans and
resolutions he may--man must dance when the master-hand chooses to pull
the strings and call the tune, though till then he is seemingly free to
act as he pleases.  And so Hector was allowed to become his own
confident self once more, and, feeling rather ashamed of his recent
lapse from common sense, hurried off with Lucy to the coercion of his
unwilling host.

"Oh, Sir Reginald," he said, entering the drawing-room, "my wife tells
me there are bears about.  Why not have a go at them to-morrow?"

"I hardly think it worth while, Graeme," said the Resident, "I don't
suppose there's a bear near the place."

"Surely, the fellow wouldn't dare bring you false khubber?"[#] said
Hector.  "Why, I'd fine his village a hundred rupees if he did, were I
the Resident."


[#] Information.


"Oh, please let's go, Sir Reginald," said Lucy.  "It would be a day out
whether we shot anything or not.  Lady Wilford will come too, and we'll
have a ripping time.  I should love it."

The Resident hesitated.  He knew perfectly well that what Graeme had
said was true, and that no Kashmiri would have dared to bring him false
information, but he had secret and most important reasons for not
wishing to leave his post at the time.  That morning's mail had brought
in news of serious trouble on the North West Frontier, hinting,
moreover, at the possibility of its being necessary to recall to their
regiments all officers now on leave in Shiraz.  This information, being
confidential, could not be given as a reason for refusing Graeme and his
wife.  The latter continued to press the attack.

"I have never seen a bear except in the Zoo," she pleaded, "and I
promise to be very good and quiet, and not get in the way.  Oh, do go."

"I have never had a chance with that new .303 of mine," said Hector,
"and I badly want to give that lazy devil of a shikari of mine something
to do, and see if he's the wonder he makes himself out to be, simply
eating and smoking his head off in idleness, the brute."

"My dear fellow, I should like it as much as you do, but we're rather
busy in the office just now, and..."

"Why not go, Reginald?" said Lady Wilford.  "It would be a day out, as
Mrs. Graeme says, and anything urgent could be sent after you by a
peon;[#] it's only twelve miles."


[#] Native Messenger.


The Resident capitulated straightway, as was his habit with his wife.
After all, she was right, he thought, and most likely no letter of
importance would come.  If it did, well, his secretary could give out
the necessary orders to the officers.  He would chance it and go.

"Very well, my dear," he said, "if you're set upon it; only don't blame
me if the bears fail to appear, that's all. I'll go now, and start off
the servants with the tents, etc. You'd better go to bed at once, young
lady," turning to Lucy; "we'll have to leave here by five at latest, you
too, Graeme, you must be tired after your exertions to-day. By the way,
Latimer," to his secretary, "you might give me a few minutes in my
study, there are one or two things I want to see you about," and Sir
Reginald went off to make his preparations for the morrow.

Graeme, having first inspected the aforementioned .303, proceeded to
interview his shikari, to whom he imparted the unwelcome news of the
forthcoming expedition.  This done, he acted upon his host's advice,
and, making his way to his room, was soon in bed and asleep.




                             *CHAPTER III*


Shortly after five the next morning, the party, mounted on ponies, left
the lamp-lit Residency and started on their way to the village of Karin,
in the vicinity of which the aforesaid bears were supposed to be
awaiting them.  The sun was not yet risen; the air was chill; and the
sahibs sleepy and disinclined for conversation.

Close at their heels trudged the four saises, bearing their charges'
blankets, while some distance in the rear stalked two dignified-looking
natives, Gokal Singh, Sir Reginald's dogra orderly, and Ahmed Khan,
Graeme's shikari.  The latter, a man of gigantic stature and imposing
appearance, was a typical specimen of the Kashmiri race.

On Graeme's arrival at Baramoula three weeks before, this worthy,
recognising at a glance the green and inexperienced new-comer, had at
once attached himself to Hector's retinue, and, heedless of rebuffs, had
seized upon the sahib's gun-cases and started off with them in triumph
to Shiraz.  In vain did Graeme order him to put the guns down and be
off; Ahmed Khan merely smiled and stuck sturdily to his booty.

Who did the sahib propose was to clean these weapons? he asked, marching
on.  Not the saises assuredly, nor the bhisti,[#] and certainly not the
Presence's bearer.  He appealed to the latter, who at once--satisfactory
terms having been previously arranged--supported him.  The Kashmiri's
questions were reasonable, he declared, a shikari was a necessity to a
sahib of importance; but first, why not see the man's chits,[#] for if
an honest man he would doubtless have such on him, and thereupon he
commanded Ahmed to produce what documents of the kind he had, and to
beware of showing false ones, for, he assured his master, such things
were done in Kashmir, and it behoved one to be wary.


[#] "Water-carrier.

[#] Written characters, mostly forged, from former employers.


A bundle of dirty papers was thereupon dragged to light, an examination
of which proved to Hector that he had secured a treasure, for they one
and all declared that, of all shikaris now in Kashmir, this one, for
honesty, skill, and lion-hearted bravery, was incomparably the first.
Graeme, impatient to be off, and by this time bored with the discussion,
then gave in, and Ahmed secured a place, which suited him exactly.  He
smoked and slept all day, spent his nights in the bazaar, and left the
cleaning of the guns to the sais, his sole self-imposed duty being to
stand up and salute the sahib whenever he saw him, a performance which
he religiously observed, and which irritated Graeme exceedingly.  The
present expedition, involving a departure from the daily routine, was by
no means to his liking, and on receiving his orders the previous night
he had at once raised objections.  Right well he knew Karin, he
declared, and its inhabitants, the headman especially, a liar, a very
prince of liars, he was too, always deceiving sahibs by false tales of
bears.

Afraid, did the Presence say, he, Ahmed Khan, afraid of a bear?  How
could that be, for was he not known throughout the country as a
lion-hearted one, and the terror of all wild beasts?  Let the Presence
but deign to look at his chits once more, and forthwith his hand sought
the folds of his dirty garments.  The frequent production of these
documents had by this time got on Graeme's nerves, and, advancing on the
lion-hearted one with uplifted arm and dangerous eyes, he was about to
make his meaning clearer, when Ahmed, recognising the inevitable,
salaamed humbly, and with a meek "Taiyar, sahib, taiyar hojaega,"[#]
proceeded, with wrath in his heart, to make preparations for the morrow.
He was now morosely trudging along by the side of Gokal Singh, with whom
as a Hindu dog he had nothing in common, but to whom as a soldier and
man of violence he was invariably respectful.


[#] "I will be ready, sir."


For the first six or seven miles the journey lay through the dense fir
and pine forest, the track winding its way along the mountain-side.
Here and there the path was broken by noisy rivulets rushing down from
above, nasty chasms being thus formed, bridged in the usual slack
Kashmiri way by a few poles covered over with sods and brushwood.
Dangerous places these for the rider, as when the brushwood rots holes
are left, through which the crossing pony may chance to drop a leg.
Soon, however, these and the gloomy forest were left behind and the
party emerged on to an open plateau, where the full glory of a Kashmiri
morning suddenly burst upon them.

Far below lay the valley, its green and gold gleaming through a veil of
silver mist, which glittered and flashed like a diamond cobweb in the
rays of the morning sun. To their right stretched an endless succession
of mountains, the summits rising like islands through the vapour billows
which swirled around them--a restless, tossing sea, now fast breaking up
and melting into floating patches of white beneath the growing splendour
of the sun.  Far across the valley gleamed the great snow-wall of the
Himalayas, now no longer spirit-haunted and visionary, but pink-flushed
and radiant with the kisses of the dawn.

At the sight Lucy gave a cry of pleasure, and, moving instinctively
closer to her husband, began to point out to him the various beauties
thus unfolded.  He was unresponsive, for once more there had stolen over
him the faint melancholy of the previous night, and with it the desire
for solitude and silence.  He therefore assisted her to dismount--Sir
Reginald had here called a halt--and muttering an excuse went to some
distance, where he stood gazing towards the north.

Lucy, much hurt at his behaviour, remained for a moment looking after
him, and then, with a sigh, walked slowly away to join Sir Reginald and
his wife, whom she found tucked away behind a rock, whither they had
betaken themselves for shelter from the breeze that blew cold and clear
from the distant snows.

The Resident had not yet regained his wonted _bonhomie_, and was full of
gloomy forebodings.  He ought not to have left Shiraz, he declared;
something would be certain to happen in his absence, and Latimer, though
a good enough fellow in his way, was not the man to cope with unforeseen
emergencies.  The present expedition too was more likely than not to
turn out a failure; a bear-shoot so often did. Possibly they might get a
shot, but he doubted it, he very much doubted it.  He only hoped there
would be no mistake about breakfast.  Samuel--his Madrasi butler--was
not given to make a hash of things, but natives were so unreliable, and
to-day somehow he had a presentiment he would.  But they must be getting
on, not waste time on this infernal hill, where he was rapidly freezing.

"Where's Graeme?  Oh, looking at the snows, is he?--very fine, very fine
indeed.  Where's my sais?  Abdul, you rascal, leave that stinking
hubble-bubble at once, and bring my pony, the lady sahib's too.  Why
don't you roll karo[#] and keep them warm, instead of letting them stand
in the cold while you're squatting on the ground like a damned fool?
They'll get a chill now and die, and you'll be in jail khana.  Serve you
right.  Hold his head, will you, how the devil can I get up with the
brute twisting about like a top? My foot, curse it, right on my foot,
you clumsy lout, and now I shan't be able to shoot.  Oh, come on, come
on, Sarah, you too, Mrs. Graeme, never mind about that husband of yours,
he'll turn up at breakfast all right."


[#] "Walk them about."


Thus encouraged by the leader, the party, joined shortly after by
Graeme, once more resumed their journey, and, the wind-swept plateau
left far above and behind them, were soon winding their way through the
crops and woodlands of the valley below.  Gradually, as the warmth
increased, Sir Reginald grew more amiable, till by the time the mud huts
of Karin appeared in sight he had become his own genial self again, and
was the first to point out the camp, a collection of large tents hard by
the village, their white sides looking cool and inviting through the
dark green of the trees.

At a respectable distance a crowd of natives were squatting, anxious for
a sight of the great man and his guests. At their approach they stood up
together, and a chorus arose of "Salaam, sahib, salaam," while turbaned
heads bowed low in reverence.  The headman came forward, and with many
protestations of unworthiness proceeded to welcome the Protector of the
Poor and the other Presences.  Sir Reginald cut him short.  Afterwards,
he said, he would be pleased to see him, but not now, and thereupon he
dismounted, and, followed by the others, entered the large marquee,
where he stood, a smile appearing on his face as he viewed the result of
Madrasi Samuel's efforts.

It was a cheering sight on which his eyes rested.  On the snowy
tablecloth, glittering with glass and silver and tastefully decked with
flowers, stood crystal dishes piled high with peaches, nectarines, and
pears, while on a trestle sideboard were displayed cold baked meats of
many kinds, from the tiny but succulent quail, nestling in his bed of
quivering jelly, to the lordly turkey, carefully browned and portly with
chestnut stuffing.  From buckets of ice, hock and soda-water bottles
reared inquiring heads, while from the kitchen outside came the
inspiring sizzle of bacon and chop, their fragrance mingling with that
of the roasting coffee-berry.

The faces of the Resident and his wife beamed with pleasure at the
sight.  "Let come what might" now, the main object to them of the
expedition was assured, and, no matter whether the bears were found or
not, there was at any rate eating and drinking to fall back upon.

Promptly vetoing Hector's suggestion that before falling to they should
make arrangements for the first drive in order to waste no time.  Sir
Reginald summoned the servants and the business of breakfast commenced,
during which Graeme and Lucy mentally beheld the quarry, bored with
waiting, stalk disgustedly away to their mountain fastnesses.  At length
the apparently interminable meal was ended, but not their trials, for
Sir Reginald, drowsy with repletion, called for cheroots, and, having
carefully selected a long and black weed from the box, notched the end
neatly with a knife, and, lighting it, lay back in his chair and
proceeded to abandon himself to dreamy reflection. This was too much for
the now indignant pair, and goaded at length into action by their
fidgeting Sir Reginald, with a sigh of regret, rose and accompanied them
outside, where the headman and his retinue were still patiently
squatting.

The story, as told by this worthy, was sufficiently thrilling.  The
country, it appeared, for miles round was alive with bears, black in
hue, and of incredible size and ferocity, and though the number of those
actually seen dwindled down to three under the close cross-questioning
of the Resident, still three, one a man-slayer, was news enough to
inspire any man, or woman either, and it was with a heart beating with
excitement, not unmixed with fear, that Lucy accompanied her husband to
the scene of the coming drama.

Hector was confident, as usual.  His experience of big-game shooting was
nil, but what of that?  He was a crack performer with a shot-gun, and no
doubt, should the occasion present itself, he would prove himself
equally proficient with the rifle.  His vanity also was stirred, for had
not the headman besought him to deliver the village from the tyranny of
these beasts, and, though he was addressing Sir Reginald at the time,
his eyes had turned to him more than once; and naturally, for it was
hardly likely that anyone so old and fat as the Resident could be relied
on in an emergency like the present.  No, it was to him they looked,
and, by Jove! they should find their confidence was not misplaced.
Ahmed Khan well knew how to foster these sentiments, for in them he saw
lay profit to himself.  Like most natives, he was an unconscious student
of human nature; it is their stock-in-trade for the extracting of
rupees, and, as he was aware from experience, the lordlier the sahib's
frame of mind, the more noble the bakshish, as is befitting.

Edging up to his master, therefore, who on this occasion did not repulse
him, he proceeded to launch forth into a panegyric of Graeme's virtues,
expressing his conviction, that, of all the sahibs he had hitherto
served, his sahib was incomparably the bravest and most expert with gun
and rifle.  And for this, he ejaculated fervently, Allah be praised,
since no one less gifted could hope to emerge victorious from a contest
with bears so ferocious as these undoubtedly were.  Thereupon followed a
stream of gruesome and imaginary anecdote illustrative of these animals'
incredible daring and savagery; but, with a pleased glance at Lucy's
white face, let not the memsahib be frightened, for he, Ahmed Khan,
would be there to see that no harm came to her or the sahib.  Only over
his dead body should that happen, for he had no fear of the beasts,
ferocious as they were.  Let her but look, and here again his hand
sought out the bundle of papers, till, suddenly catching the sahib's
eye, he changed his mind, and lifting up a fold of his dingy garments
blew his nose hastily with it.

At length, after an hour's walk, the scene of action was reached, this
being a deeply-wooded ravine roughly triangular in shape and about half
a mile in length.  Lining the base could be seen the beaters awaiting
the signal to advance, the guns being placed in position near the apex,
one on either side.

Perched on a tree, overhanging the edge of the ravine and halfway
between the beaters and guns, sat, in dignified eminence, the patriarch
of the village.  His duty it was to stimulate the exertions of his
friends by much laudation of their efforts, and at the same time to
excite their hatred of the quarry by bitter cursing and vituperation of
the same.  His further mission was to act as sentinel, and to give
notice of the bear's approach to his lords and patrons at the other end.

Suddenly a long loud whistle broke the silence, and at the sound
pandemonium broke loose in the ravine, each villager howled his loudest,
while through the din was heard the dull monotonous throbbing of a
tom-tom, lustily beaten by the village priest.  The line of beaters
crept on, but so far there was no sign of the enemy; the uproar
gradually abated, and even the tom-tom had ceased to beat, when suddenly
the figure in the tree began to show signs of agitation.  He craned
forward, his neck was thrust out like that of a vulture, and then with a
wild shriek of "Balu! balu!"[#] he commenced to wave his arms and
gesticulate with a frenzied energy, which threatened every minute to
precipitate him from his perch into the abyss below.


[#] "The bear! the bear!"


Instantly the clamour was renewed, the thrumming of the tom-tom rose to
a roar, while, faintly heard through the din, the thin screams of the
patriarch in the tree smote upon the ear.  He exhorted his brothers to
advance and fear not, in the same breath cursing the bear and reviling
its female ancestors with an intensity and bitter hatred, which that
harmless mulberry-eater would hardly seem to have merited.

At the sportsmen's end of the ravine a tense silence reigned, all eyes
being fixed on the undergrowth below, whence a faint rustling and
clatter of loose stones were now coming, betokening something's
approach.  Lucy's face whitened, and she clutched her husband by the
arm. Shaking her off, he grasped his rifle tighter; but, alas! the
quarry was not for him, for suddenly the "old and fat" Sir Reginald was
seen to raise his weapon, a dull boom echoed through the ravine,
followed by a "Woof, woof," a commotion in the bushes, and then the
silence of death. The bear was slain.

"Damn!" muttered Graeme, and was turning sharply away when a gasp from
Lucy stopped him, and looking round he beheld another bear, which,
having emerged unseen from below, was now hastily shuffling off.  Graeme
fired, but the bear paid no heed; again he fired, and still the target
refused to stop, but to the accompaniment of a wail from Lucy and a
curse from Ahmed Khan lumbered on to the shelter of some bushes and was
lost to view.

A dreadful moment followed; not only had he, Hector Graeme, missed an
easy shot in the eyes of the whole village, but, worse still, he had
failed where another had succeeded, an altogether impossible situation,
and one by no way improved by the well-meant, though perhaps tactless,
condolences of his host, who now joined them.  The thing was done,
however, and the bear in safety miles away, so assuming what nonchalance
he might, and avoiding the reproachful eyes of Lucy, who declined to
look at Sir Reginald's bear, and the glum face of Ahmed Khan, whose
hopes of bakshish had disappeared with the bear, he turned to his host,
and jauntily inquired what the next move was to be.  Sir Reginald
without hesitation answered that that must undoubtedly be lunch, it
being now past one, and the next beat more than a mile distant,
whereupon, guided by a white-clad khitmagar, sent forward for the
purpose by the thoughtful Samuel, the party returned to the marquee,
where once more they found a repast awaiting them, more suggestive of
Prince's or the Savoy than a picnic in the wilds of Kashmir.

At first Graeme's mood was not conversational, but gradually, under the
influence of good cheer and much hock and soda, his mortification
subsided, till at cigarette time he had recovered his wonted serenity,
and even permitted himself to discuss the recent disaster.

"Curious thing," he observed, "my missing like that, wonder what
happened.  Don't often do it, rather good shot as a rule, ain't I,
Lucy?"

"Indeed you are, Hector," answered the latter, looking indignantly at
her host and refusing to respond to a wink. "My husband is considered
one of the best shots in Hertfordshire, Sir Reginald, and how he came to
miss the bear I can't imagine.  I think there must be something wrong
with that rifle, Hector, I really do."

"Wrong with the powder, I should say, Mrs. Graeme," said the Resident,
in high good-humour, "wants straightening.  Have to do better than that
when you go to Tirah, why ... Try that Grand Marnier, Graeme, I can
recommend it."

"Thanks, I will," said Graeme, filling his glass, "and about
Tirah--going up, are we, when?"

"Surely, Sir Reginald, there's no chance of that?" said Lucy, with
startled eyes.

"No chance whatever, Mrs. Graeme, no chance at all, I should say;
foolish of me to have mentioned it, must have been dreaming.  A native
regiment or two may have to go, that is, if the Afridis really mean
trouble, which I doubt, but hardly British cavalry.  No, no, set your
mind at rest."

"Native troops again," muttered Graeme discontentedly; "it's always the
same story.  They have all the fun, while we fool about in cantonments.
Wish to Heaven I was in a black corps."

"You'd very soon wish yourself out again, my friend," said his host.  "I
know I'd give something to be back in the old 12th," his thoughts
reverting as he spoke to the days when he was a subaltern in a
fashionable Hussar regiment.  "Gad, what times we used to have, and what
an infernal young fool I was to come the mucker I did. Real life that
was, not this tin-pot grandeur and importance."

Lady Wilford at once intervened.  To her, a former Mussoori belle and
daughter of a police official in that place, Sir Reginald's London
reminiscences were always distasteful.  India, not England, was her
native country, and she was not going to hear the former or its dignity
derided, certainly not in the presence of a mere soldier officer, who,
as everyone knows, is in no way the equal of an Indian civilian.

"Of course, you don't mean that, Reginald," she observed with some
asperity, "and I confess I'm rather surprised that you, in your
position, should have made such a remark.  You'll be giving our guests
an altogether wrong impression, but," turning to Hector, "you mustn't
take what my husband says seriously, Captain Graeme; he often jokes in
this way."

"Mayfield's your cousin, ain't he, Sir Reginald?" said Hector,
unheeding.  "He and Lady Edith were staying with my governor last covert
shooting."

"No; she is.  Rockingham was my father's brother. Good old Uncle Jack,
wonder when I'll see him again.  Gad, I remember...."

"Won't you tell us about the frontier, Reginald?" said Lady Wilford.
"You know, Captain Graeme, my husband's one of the great authorities on
the subject; indeed, his Excellency, a great friend of ours, once told
me he considered him the greatest.  I'm sure you would like to hear
about it, both of you."

"Very much," said Hector, lying back in his chair and lighting another
cigarette.

"It's hardly the subject for a picnic lunch, my dear," said the
Resident, rather annoyed at being shown off in this manner, "and I'm
sure it wouldn't interest our guests."

"Indeed, Sir Reginald, it would," answered Lucy, dealing a surreptitious
kick at her husband's foot, at which with a low growl he opened his
closing eyes.

"Some mullah fellow been stirring 'em up, hasn't he, Sir Reginald?" he
observed sleepily.

"The Hadda Mullah," said the Resident briefly, "trying to proclaim a
religious war.  Jehad, they call it.  Don't think he will, all the same,
for the Afridis have no religion to speak of.  They'll be a hard nut to
crack, if they do rise; but let's be off, it's time we were at those
bears again. Wait a minute, though," he added, suddenly rising and
hurrying out of the tent; "there's a man I want to see before we start.
You stay here," looking hard at his wife, "amuse our guests till I
return, Sarah.  I won't be a minute."

"Now then, what is it?" he said sharply to a blue-clad native, with a
leather belt round his waist, whose approach he had observed through the
open door of the tent. "Letter for me?  Hum, I was afraid of it, a wire
too for Graeme sahib.  Damn, but it's bad luck on her.  All right,
here's the sahib coming out now.  You can give him the wire--not now,
you fool, wait for three minutes."

"Oh, Mrs. Graeme, come over here and have a look at my bear, fine chap,
isn't he?  I'll have him skinned for you if you like; he'll make rather
a good carriage-rug."

"It's awfully kind of you, Sir Reginald, but I couldn't think ... Why,
what on earth's the matter with my husband?  He seems very angry.
Good--good heavens, what's that in his hand?  It's, heavens, it's a
telegram.  Oh, Hector, what is it?"

"Only a recall, Lucy, that's all, an order to return, from that old fool
Schofield.  But I won't go.  I'll see him damned first, by the Lord I
will!  I'm here on leave, and here I'll stay.  You see now what comes of
being in the Service, always at the beck and call of some jumpy idiot of
a C.O."

"But--but why, Hector, what for?"

"I don't know; all it says is 'Return at once.'  Some silly inspection,
I suppose.  But I ain't going.  I'll wire to say 'Regret impossible.'
Here, you fool with the belt, give me a form."

"I'm afraid you can't do that, Graeme," said his host gravely.

"Can't I?  I'll soon show you I can.  Why ... what do you mean, do you
know anything of this, Sir Reginald?"

"The 1st Lancers leave Riwala for the frontier to-night. The Afridis
have risen, after all, and seized the Khyber forts.  I'm very sorry,
Mrs. Graeme, but I was afraid of it all along.  That's why I didn't want
to come to-day."

Lucy said nothing.

"What's all this?" said Lady Wilford, coming up. "Oh," on hearing the
news, "I _do_ call that a shame, my dear, I am so sorry."

Lucy again made no answer, but, turning, left the group and walked
slowly away to her tent.

"Oh, but, Reginald," continued his wife, really distressed, "surely
something can be done, these two poor creatures, why not send a wire to
say Captain Graeme's sick and can't move?  They'd believe you, though of
course they wouldn't him."

"My dear, what you suggest is impossible."

"I should just think it is," said Graeme, the anger on whose face had
now turned to joy.  "What! me skulk up here while my regiment's fighting
on the frontier, not much. Here, I must get back to Shiraz at once.
Ahmed Khan, put my things together, ek dum.[#]  And you," to the peon,
"order me a tonga when you get back.  Gad, but this is good business,
Lucy.  Now where's my wife got to?"


[#] Immediately.


The Resident looked at him curiously.  He didn't much like his guest at
that moment.

"I think," he said rather coldly, "she has gone away to her tent.  It's
a bit rough on her, Graeme, you know."

"By Jove, yes, of course it is.  I must go and find her at once.  When
do you think we can start, Sir Reginald?"

"Time enough if you leave Baramoula to-morrow. You can't do it to-night;
besides, if you're thinking of your brother officers, they'll have gone
by now."

"I sincerely trust they have.  I don't want their company, Porky in a
tonga would be just about the limit, and I must go to-night.  I
shouldn't sleep a wink if I didn't.  Oh, let's be off.  You can give me
a permit, I suppose, for the road?"[#]


[#] A permit from the Resident of Kashmir is required by those wishing
to make the Tonga journey to the plains by night. This is on account of
the dangerous nature of the road.


"Oh, as far as that goes, there'd be no difficulty, but..."

"That's settled then.  I'll go and tell Lucy."

"Very well, if you insist, we'll be ready in half an hour from now.  You
can manage it, I suppose, Sarah?" to his wife, who was looking at Graeme
with indignant eyes.

"Oh yes, but I really think..."

"So do I, but it seems our friend here has made up his mind.  Rather a
sad ending to our picnic, Graeme;" but the latter was already on his way
to the tent, where he found Lucy lying face downwards on her bed,
quietly sobbing.

At the sight, a sudden spasm of remorse seized Hector; tears were a rare
occurrence with Lucy.  He knelt down beside her and tried to take her
hand.

"I'm awfully sorry, dear," he began, "and I'm afraid I've been beastly
selfish, but I'm afraid in the excitement I never thought of that.  I
can see now it's devilish hard on you, and I wish, I do indeed, I hadn't
to go; but I must; you see that, don't you, dear?"

No answer but sobs.

Hector was nonplussed.  He could make love as well as most men--perhaps
even better--but in the capacity to feel the sorrows of others his
nature was altogether lacking, and he knew no other way to dry a woman's
tears save with kisses.  Such grief merely bored and annoyed him, and,
as he looked at the stricken figure before him, in spite of himself a
faint feeling of grievance began to take possession of him.

"Come, Lucy," he said, trying to make his voice as gentle as he could.
"Pull yourself together, dear; after all, you are more to blame for this
than me."

"I, Hector, oh, how?"

"For not letting me cut the Service when I wanted to. You see now what
has come of it."

"Oh, how I wish I had, but I only did it for your sake, Hector."

"And that being so," continued Graeme, feeling his advantage, "it's
hardly logical to complain.  After all, fighting is what we're for, not
loafing about barracks. Why, it was only last night that you were at me
to take my profession seriously, and now, when I've got a chance at
last, you grumble.  It isn't fair, Lucy, it isn't really; makes the
going ten times worse for me."

"I--I'm not grumbling, only--crying a little.  I--I shouldn't be human
if I didn't.  Oh, Hector, are you made of stone?"

"Of course I'm not, only I've got more self-control.  I feel it every
bit as much as you do; it's the same for me, you know."

"It isn't, it isn't!" sobbed Lucy.  "You've got the excitement, your
brother officers and--and the rest.  You're not left alone with nothing
to do but think, as I shall be after to-morrow, for you must go then, I
suppose.  Oh, dearest, couldn't you wait for just one more day, for my
sake, Hector?"

"I--I'm afraid I must go to-night, Lucy," stammered Hector.

The girl sat up, her eyes rather wild.

"To-night?  Oh no, no, you can't; you mustn't go to-night.  I--I
couldn't bear it, Hector."

"I must, dear; if I didn't, they might put me under arrest for
disobedience to orders.  Think what might be said too, that brute
O'Hagan, for instance."

"What does it matter about him?  I come first.  And you can't go
to-night.  The road's not safe.  Those awful precipices."

"There's no danger, Lucy, and, believe me, I must."  Hector's jaw set
and his eyes hardened.

A long pause.  Graeme looked at his watch.  Quarter of an hour had
already passed.

"Lucy, dear," he began again, "I don't wish to hurry you, but Sir
Reginald told me to say that he would start in half an hour;" and Lucy
at once rose, except for her pale face and red eyes, to all appearances
calm once more.

"Very well, Hector," she said in a level voice, "I will be ready.  Tell
Sir Reginald I won't keep him waiting. I--I should like an hour or two
at Shiraz, though, if you can wait so long.  I want to see about your
things."

"Oh, of course, dear, and, Lucy, you know, don't you, that it's not want
of feeling on my part?  I hate it as much as you do, probably more,
only..."

"Yes, yes, but please leave me now, Hector, or I shan't--shan't.  Oh,
go--go."

She half pushed him out of the tent and closed the flap behind him.

                     *      *      *      *      *

"That fellow was right," muttered Hector, as some hours later he rode
down the hill on his way to Baramoula, "who said soldiers ought not to
be married.  I wish to heaven I'd sent in my papers before I left
England, as I wanted to; but she wouldn't have it, said she wanted me to
make a name for myself, and now the time's come, it seems she doesn't
want it at all.  No more do I, much rather stay behind with her.  God,
how cursedly miserable I feel, so much for love for a woman stirring a
man's ambition and making him keen to do things.  It don't, it takes all
the heart out of him.  Hullo, there's Baramoula, now I wonder whether
that fool ordered my tonga?" and shaking up his pony he rode on at a
canter.




                              *CHAPTER IV*


Early morning on the Khyber Hills.  Not the autumn morning known to
dwellers in rural England, where eyes rest on a landscape of still
loveliness, on stubble-fields of pale yellow, on copses of russet and
gold, and on meadows sheeted in silver dew, but something far different
from that.  Here is no green of grass, no vitalising chill of morning
air, but instead a dull burning heat, clothing a land of flat stony
plain and glowing mountain, towering up into a sky of hard cloudless
blue.

In the centre of the plain, apparently alone, a British soldier stood
watching, a white-faced soldier, his khaki uniform creased and tumbled,
and, though his _role_ of sentry was no laborious one, already stained
with dark patches of sweat.  Around him for miles stretched the brown
monotony of sun-baked stony flat, seamed here and there by ragged-edged
nullahs and dry watercourses, in the sandy beds of which a few withered
shrubs and tussocks of grass clung hard to a miserable existence.

Before him, some three miles away, a wall of mountains barred the view,
a rampart of earth and stone glaring red in the sunlight; sheer from the
plain it rose, a forbidding barrier between India and Afghanistan, a
barrier too with but few gateways, one of which, however--a dark rift in
the hills--lay directly in front of the soldier as he stood.

Here and there, huddled against the foot of the mountains, could be seen
the mud walls and strong square towers of a Pathan village, apparently
deserted save for the occasional appearance of a white-clad figure and a
few herds of miserable-looking sheep and goats browsing on the hillside
hard by.  Far away behind him, the solid walls and ramparts of Fort
Hussein rose from the plain, a former Sikh stronghold, and now the
temporary abode of her Majesty's 1st Regiment of Lancers.

Screening its mass, arose a thick haze of dust and smoke, through which
now and again could be seen the faint twinkle of lance-point and
sword-scabbard, and, the dust at times clearing, strings of mules and
horses moving to and from a pond of muddy water.  Over all was a
pitiless brazen sky, in which glared the yellow disc of the sun, its
rays smiting down on sweating man and beast, and turning Fort Hussein
into an inferno of flies, fever, and burning walls.

Sentry Bates, clutching his carbine, now well-nigh too hot to hold,
viewed all these things with aching eyes, and spat on the ground and
swore.  "An' this is bein' on active service," he muttered, "this doin'
of guards and pickets more than wot a man 'as in barriks, no fightin',
no enemy, no nuthink, only patrollin,' an' stinkin' rations and 'ot beer
when you git 'ome.  Wot are we 'ere for, I'd like to know, wot for did
they send the ridgmint up 'ere? Fed up, that's wot I am, fair fed up."
He paused, took off his helmet and wiped his brow.  He then replaced the
headpiece, front to back, as is customary with Tommy Atkins when out of
sight of authority, and, taking from his breast-pocket a packet of
"Swell" cigarettes, lit one and resumed his soliloquy.

"Wonder what 'Ooky's doin' over there?" he murmured, gazing towards a
hillock some two miles away to the front of him, where a small group of
horses could be seen standing.  "Fancy the bloke a-sendin' 'im on
detached post, ruddy foolishness, I call it, not like the bloke at all.
'Ullo, they're movin', strike me, they're gone, now what the 'ell does
that mean?"  He remained staring vacantly.

Private Bates, though apparently solitary and unsupported, was
nevertheless not so, for close at hand, hidden from view in the depths
of a great nullah, a troop of the 1st Lancers were lying; to which force
he was now acting as look-out man.

Here, standing in a row, their heads fastened together by the process
known in the Service as "linking," were the horses, black with sweat and
restlessly kicking at the buzzing flies, while their riders, except the
luckless Bates and a few men told off to watch the animals, were sitting
in a circle smoking and indulging in that desultory conversation to
which the British soldier is addicted.  Some yards away Hector Graeme
was lying on his back, his head resting on his helmet and a handkerchief
spread over his face.  For an hour he had so lain, trying to sleep; but,
the flies and heat forbidding, he had now abandoned the attempt, and was
listening to the conversation of the men.

The detachment of which he was this morning in command, or rather one
similar to it--for the duty devolved on each troop of the regiment in
turn--was sent out daily from Fort Hussein to its present position, its
mission being to watch for and report on any movement of tribesmen from
the direction of the Pass.  For the better fulfilment of the task
allotted, and to avoid unnecessary wear and tear of horseflesh, it was
customary to push forward from the troop itself a detached post of six
men under a non-commissioned officer.  These were stationed on a small
hillock about a mile distant from the mouth of the Pass, their orders
being to watch it, but on no account to enter it.

To-day the command of this post had been entrusted to a certain Sergeant
Walker, familiarly known as "Hooky," for, as every soldier is aware, in
the Army all Walkers are "Hookies," just as all Clarkes are "Nobbies."

It was the sudden disappearance of this party from its hillock that had
so excited the interest of Private Bates, and, curiously enough, at the
same time, the conversation in the nullah had also turned on the subject
of this particular non-commissioned officer.

"Think 'Ooky's caught the 'Addy Mullah yet, Jim?" said a voice.

"Shouldn't wonder at all, Spider," was the answer, "got 'im tied by a
neck-rope to 'is 'orse and a-bringin' of 'im up before the orfcer.  Now
then, 'Addy, quick march, 'alt, saloot.  Stand up straight, can't yer?
and stop fiddlin' with yer 'ands.  This 'ere 'Addy, sir, 'as been givin'
a lot of trouble lately, creatin' of disturbances in the Khyber Parse.
Most troublesome man, sir, can't do nothin' with 'im. Sivin days to
barriks?  Very good, sir.  Right turn, dismiss.  Come back, d'ye 'ear,
and saloot the orfcer properly.'"

"'Ooky's a bloke like a lot more we 'ave in the Army," said another,
Wilde by name, "always a-gettin' of a man 'set' and naggin' at 'im.  'E
makes crime, does Sergeant Walker."

"That's a fact, Oscar, and 'e 'imself ain't no perticler class, neither.
'E don't know 'is 'orses and 'e don't know 'is drill, but 'e's got a
kind o' soapy way with 'im wot goes down with Rawson.  Don't get round
'im, though," jerking his head towards Graeme and lowering his voice to
a cautious whisper.

"'Oo, 'im?  Why, Taylor, 'im as is waiter in the orfcer's Mess, says as
'ow the other orfcers..."  The rest of the sentence was inaudible.

"Orfcers, wot do they know?  Why..."  Mumble, mumble, and then, in the
heat of controversy, a voice raised:

"'E ain't a fool, I tell you, Ginger, the 'ole squadron knows that.
Ferrers, 'oo's Ferrers?  Give me 'Ector, and you can 'ave the rest, ole
man and all."

"Now then, stop that language," came sharply from a recumbent figure
with three gold stripes on his arm, surmounted by a crown.
Sergeant-Major Stocks had suddenly become alive to the enormity of the
present discussion, and hastened to intervene.  At his voice a hush fell
on the group till, authority once more slumbering, the conversation was
resumed.

"Wot for then 'as 'e gone and put 'Ooky on detached post, that's what I
want to know?" said a voice, echoing the same doubt that had arisen in
Private Bates's mind.

"Better arsk 'im, cully, not me.  'E knows 'Ooky same as 'e knows every
man in the squadron, and if so be as 'e's put 'Ooky to watch the Parse,
'e's got 'is reasons for it, same like 'e always 'as."

A somewhat curious smile played over Hector's face as he listened, for
the speaker was right in what he said.  He _did_ know his men.  More, he
had an intimate knowledge of their natures and capabilities, such as no
other officer of the regiment could have hoped to acquire even had he
tried. However, the other officers had not tried, the study of character
in no way being regarded as part of the training of an officer in the
British Army.  With Hector such knowledge was a natural gift, as well as
a hobby, and possibly it was owing to this that he possessed his curious
popularity and influence over the men, at which Major Rawson, his
squadron leader and constant foe, had so often wondered.

And yet, knowing them as he did, he had deliberately selected a
non-commissioned officer, whom he knew to be one of the most incompetent
in the regiment, for the responsible position he now held.  But again,
as Private Thomas had observed, he had his reasons, though these would
probably have much astonished that person, as well as anyone else to
whom they had been divulged.

Briefly they were as follows.  The present was the fourth occasion on
which Graeme had been entrusted with this particular mission, and so far
as had also happened to his brother officers, the proceedings had been
of a singular tameness--no sign of an enemy having been seen and no shot
fired.  While they were content to grumble, Hector had determined to act
and at all costs to have some little fighting to his credit, even if
this should involve an attack on the Pass with his one troop.

On the way out this morning, his mind occupied with the problem of how
his object was to be attained, he had by chance overheard a conversation
between the redoubtable Sergeant Walker and a corporal; the former, as
was his wont, vaunting his bravery and informing his incredulous
companion that "give me but arf a chance, and I will show them I am
afraid of no Pathan blokes; up the bloody Pass I mean to go sooner or
later, orders or no orders."

Graeme, at first bored, soon became attentive, and finally, to the
astonishment of the troop, called the hero up, and told him he would be
in command of the detached post that day.  This information he
supplemented with a few remarks on the necessity of daring and
enterprise on the part of subordinates, concluding by a short anecdote
dealing with the subject of a certain sergeant who, though acting in
defiance of orders, had yet achieved great renown. Having thus fired an
already sufficiently vainglorious spirit, he despatched the man on his
mission, observing with secret gratification his victim surreptitiously
borrow the trumpeter's revolver, and with this tucked away in his
holster depart, rating his followers as he went, even more than was his
wont.

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 _confreres_, 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
_elite_, that opposite for the [Greek: oi polloi] 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 _cafe 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, bot 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.

                     *      *      *      *      *

Three miles away, the subject of these reflections was idly lounging in
the breakfast-room of Dilkhusha, a fair-sized two-storied building lying
among the fir-woods at the extreme western end of the Chillata range.
Nearly three years had elapsed since a certain fateful Riwala
race-meeting, three uneventful years, spent in the manner usual to
Anglo-Indians in India.  Two more Regimental Cup races had been won and
lost, but on neither occasion had Hector competed, nor even been present
as a spectator. With Lucy's full concurrence, nay, urging, he had shut
up their bungalow and departed with her on shooting trips to the hills.
During these three years Lucy's health had gradually declined, till she
was now but a wreck of her former self; that she had been too long in
India was the opinion of most, while the doctors declared that it was a
nervous breakdown, started probably by the shock of the Cup incident,
and in this perhaps they were right, for illness and Lucy had had little
acquaintance before that event.

It is true there had been no trouble over the matter, or suggestion of
foul riding on Hector's part; on the contrary, much sympathy had been
expressed with them both for the pain and grief they must be foiling.  A
letter had also been received from O'Hagan's mother, a sad letter, for
it appeared that, whatever his other feelings, the dead man had been a
good and devoted son, but she in no way blamed Hector for his share in
her son's death.  It was even worse for him than for her, she wrote, and
from where he was now, Robert, she knew, forgave him as fully as she
herself did.

Hector, having read the above, when handed to him by his wife, had
absently rolled it into a spill, and was proceeding to light a cigarette
with it, when Lucy had snatched it from him and hurried away to her
room, where she had sobbed on her bed for hours.  One consolation was
hers, and that was the obvious avoidance of her by Peter Carson.  When
they met, as was sometimes unavoidable, he was always friendly, more so
even than before, but he took care not to meet her eye; and he did not
come to the house at odd times, as was his wont.  Finally, he had left
Riwala for a year's shooting expedition to Eastern Africa, and, though
the twelve months was nearly up, she would not see him again--not for a
long time, at any rate--for shortly she too would be gone, leaving the
hateful country, she hoped, for good. She and her husband, a few months
hence, would be at home, a course urged upon Hector by the doctors for
over a year, but which Lucy had refused to follow till he could
accompany her.  At last, after many refusals, Colonel Schofield had
agreed to Captain Graeme's going in October, three months ahead, not a
day before.

A change now was more than ever imperative for Lucy, on whom, in
addition to her other troubles, a further burden had been laid--one for
which she had always longed, but which in her present feeble condition
threatened to overwhelm her.  To all the doctors' entreaties, to go home
in the spring and let Hector follow her six months later, she refused to
listen, her only concession being to spend the hot weather in Chillata,
instead of remaining in Riwala with her husband as she originally
intended.

Here he would be able to run up for the very few days' leave he could
hope to obtain.  They would be in the same country, at any rate, and if
he were ill she would know at once, and have a home ready for him to
come to; whereas, by the other plan, thousands of miles of sea would be
between them, and anything might happen to him even without her
knowing--things in India occurred with such appalling suddenness.

Hector, on his part, had done his best.  He had rented one of the best,
though unfashionably situated, houses in Chillata, and personally
superintended every detail for her comfort.  He even accompanied her on
the long, tedious fifty-mile carriage drive up the hill, a special
comfortable landau having been chartered by him for the journey, instead
of the ordinary two-wheeled tonga usually employed by travellers to that
place.  This was a most unwonted attention on Hector's part, who had
hitherto held himself aloof from all such matters, leaving them to be
dealt with by Lucy, even to such details as the packing of his personal
belongings and arrangements for the transport of ponies, etc.

Like Lucy, he too had changed much of late, and now showed a
consideration and affection of which even she would never have believed
him capable.  Of what had brought this about she was ignorant, nor did
Hector himself know exactly.  Remorse for O'Hagan's death was certainly
not the cause, or even regret for the pain caused to his wife;
nevertheless he too had been shaken, not by the act itself--the memory
of which troubled him not at all--but by the revelation within him of
some tremendous capacity for evil, rendering him a thing apart from his
fellows.  The knowledge of this for a time had shaken even his callous
soul, and given birth to a feverish desire to be as others are, to feel
as they felt, to live as they lived.

With this feeling within him, he laid himself out to please Lucy,
anticipating her every want and devoting himself to her to an extent
that caused Graeme's uxoriousness, as it was called, to become a byword,
especially in Chillata, where connubial devotion was a somewhat unusual
thing. Hector was far too desperately in earnest to care for the world's
sneers; they didn't know what his object was, how should they?  He
redoubled his efforts, and now that a child was to be born to them
strove with all his might to interest himself in the baby's
coming--little liking as he had for children--for in the cultivation of
such purely natural feelings as affection for wife and child, he
realised dimly, could he hope to stifle the monster of whose existence
he alone was aware.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, for her, Lucy knew nothing of all this.
She was too sane and healthy-minded to be able to comprehend such a
nature as her husband's, and with the curious fatality that had always
marked her dealings with him, she now, instead of aiding, rather
frustrated his efforts, and always, sadly enough, to her own undoing.
It was not want of tact on her part, for of that quality Lucy had more
than most, but simply that, being so normal herself, the comprehension
of the abnormal was beyond her understanding; and, though touched and
pleased with her husband's constant wish to be always with her, she yet
fought against it, believing that he stayed solely to please her.  With
this idea in her mind, she was constantly urging him to leave her, and
mix more with his kind; it was unnatural, she declared, for a man to
wish to remain in the house all day with, at most, an hour's walk as his
sole exercise.  Of course, it was sweet of him to wish to be with her,
and she appreciated the thought, but she would much rather he didn't;
she could get on very well by herself, and he would always be home
before dark.

Hector, driven in upon himself, would go off on long solitary rides--the
worst thing for him--leaving Lucy happy in the consciousness of an
unselfish action.  How well she understood him, she thought, and what a
dear he was.  True, there was that one episode of the race-meeting--to
which she owed the present state of her nerves--but even for that she
had by now come to account.  It had been an accident after all, she was
certain, and Hector, to gratify his vanity, had made out it was
intentional, and was hence naturally unable to feel the remorse, which
she and Peter Carson, in their ignorance, had expected of him. Callous?
Not he, why, every action of his since then had shown him to be the very
reverse.

Gradually, braced by the clear Chillata air, and the prospect of a
speedy return home, Lucy, though still feeble, had somewhat recovered,
and with the arrival of her husband, on a quite unexpected two months'
leave, was now almost happy.  For the first two weeks after his coming
she had been somewhat anxious, for talk in Chillata was almost
exclusively of war, and the place thronged with applicants to be sent
out to South Africa.  Only too well did she realise Hector's vanity, and
feared that he also, solely from a morbid disinclination to be left in
the background, might in his turn apply; and she knew he would certainly
succeed, as he always did, when those dreadful sudden fits of
determination came upon him.  It was therefore with a feeling of
heartfelt relief that she saw him, apparently, in no way interested in
the matter, though, had she known his mind, it is possible she would not
have been so lighthearted on the subject, and would have been more than
ever touched by a further proof of his devotion. For exactly what she
had feared was in her husband's mind, and for that reason Hector avoided
Chillata assemblies like the plague, refused to attend the theatre,
despite Lucy's urgings, and, when obliged to pass that way, hurried by
the Military Offices without a glance.

He was now, on this September morning, brooding over the subject, a
crumpled copy of the _Pioneer_ in his hand, detailing some fresh
disaster, which he felt bitterly, had he been in command, would have
been no defeat, but a brilliant success.  For a week without
intermission it had rained steadily, rendering even the short morning
and evening walks impossible; and day after day, night after night, the
rain had poured drearily down, rattling on the corrugated iron of the
roof, turning Lucy's small garden into a quagmire, and shrouding the
surrounding hills and valleys with a pall of white vapour.  Small
streams had become torrents; hill paths running rivulets; while from
weeping fir-tree and chestnut sounded the continuous drip of water on
dank fern and rotting vegetation.  As Hector looked and heard, a feeling
of depression came over him, and with it that other self began to make
itself heard.  The longing came over him to be off at once to the
Military Offices, send in his application, and go, for despite the
constant refusal to others, he had no doubt of success, were he to
apply.

"Three weeks more of this," he reflected, "then two months' idling in
the plains, and after that home, a year's loafing again, while others
are making names and passing me.  It's that which galls me, being out of
it, I who could leave them all if I chose.  Oh, curse my folly of five
years ago, impulsive fool that I was; I could have got out of it easily
too, if only they hadn't opposed me.  If they'd made it easy, I don't
think somehow I'd have persisted.  Oh, damnation take it, here am I,
with the best wife in the world, regretting.  Apply?  Not I.  Oh, thank
God, here she is.  Lucy dear," throwing down the paper, and hurrying
forward to meet the pale ghost who now entered, "it's good to see you
down so early.  Here's your chair, I've got the cushions and everything
ready for you.  There," settling her comfortably and tucking the shawl
round her feet, "now tell me how you feel, better?"

"Much better, Hector dear, thanks to you and the way you cheer me up.
I'm afraid I'm rather a burden to you now, and so very plain and
unattractive.  You can't call me pretty, as you used to."

"Nonsense, Lucy, you're prettier than ever, and far more attractive to
me now, naturally."

"Oh no, I'm not, Hector.  You only say that because, because ... you're
the best husband in the world, so different from most men to their
wives.  But isn't that the _Pioneer_, any news of the war?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Lucy; the war, as you know, doesn't interest
me."

"But surely it ought to, besides, there are so many we know fighting out
there.  Oh, Hector, how thankful I am you're not one of those who
volunteered.  It would have broken my heart had you done so."

Hector turned sharply away, and walking to the window remained for a
moment staring out into the mist.

"Lucy," he said suddenly, "why did you always oppose my retiring?  I
could have done so before the war started, now I can't."

"Because I didn't want to spoil your life, Hector.  I want you to
command your regiment, not settle down yet; you're too young.  It was
for your sake I refused.  I should have loved it myself."

"And at the same time you don't want me to see active service," said
Hector, with a somewhat justifiable show of irritation.  "Can't you see,
Lucy, that not being in this war will certainly prove a bar to my own or
anybody else's chance of future command?"

"But you _have_ seen active service, Hector.  Surely once is enough for
any man, besides, you did so well then, everyone knows you ought to have
got the V.C.  Oh, by the way, I have meant to ask you for some time, do
you know a----  Oh, bother, there's a caller, don't go.  Hector, it's
only Mrs. Swaine.  How do you do, Mrs. Swaine?" to the lady who was
ushered in by the bearer.

"So glad to find you in, Mrs. Graeme," said the new-comer.  "I came
round to ask whether you and your husband would care to come round to
lunch to-day.  Rather short notice, I'm afraid, but my nephew has just
received orders for South Africa; he goes to-night, and I'm inviting a
few friends to give him a send-off."

"Your nephew? oh, how dreadful for you, Mrs. Swaine, I'm so sorry."

"Oh, I don't know, after all, it's what soldiers are for, and Tom's
really very fortunate to be selected. Everyone's applying nowadays, you
know, and nearly all are refused.  They only take the best men, and Tom,
though he is my nephew, is very highly thought of at Headquarters."

"They'd like my husband to go, I know," said Lucy, up in arms at once,
"he only has to apply."

"Oh, really?  I didn't know they'd take married men. Sir Henry told me
the other day they wouldn't.  Anyway, I'm sure Captain Graeme wouldn't
think of leaving you ... now," with an arch smile at the frowning
Hector, "the thing's quite unthinkable.  But about lunch, will you
come?"

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Swaine, I should like to, but I'm afraid my
husband----"

"Oh, I'll come," said Hector.

"Capital," said the lady.  "Well, I must be off, I've got all sorts of
things to see about.  Good-bye, you two, so glad," and away trotted Mrs.
Swaine, leaving silence behind her.

"Hector dear," said Lucy, after a pause, "you didn't mind what that
woman said?  She's a good soul really, only tactless."

"Not I," said Hector, "but you were saying something when she came in.
You asked me if I knew----"

"Oh yes, General Quentin, such a curious person, Hector. They call him
Golliwog here, and I should say he has about as much intelligence.
Really, I don't think I ever met such a dull person in my life before."

"He's one of the few men I know, Lucy, whose opinion I respect.  Also,
he's the only fe

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