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.'