finished clowning in the kit I offered him, and had got back into his
Arab things while I was shaving off the black whiskers with which Nature
adorns my face whenever I neglect the razor for a few days, when an auto
came tooting and roaring down the narrow street, and a moment later
three staff officers took the stairs at a run. So far, good; that was
unofficial, good-natured, human and entirely decent. The three of them
burst through the bed room door, all grins, and took turns pumping with
Jeremy's right arm--glad to see him--proud to know him--pleased to see
him looking fit and well, and all that kind of thing. Even men who had
fought all through the war had forgotten some of its red tape by that
time, and Jeremy not being in uniform they treated him like a fellow
human being. And he reciprocated, Australian fashion, free and easy,
throwing up his long legs on my bed and yelling for somebody to bring
drinks for the crowd, while they showered questions on him.

It wasn't until Jeremy turned the tables and began to question them that
the first cloud showed itself.

"Say, old top," he demanded of a man who wore the crossed swords of a
brigadier. "Grim tells me I'm a trooper. When can I get my discharge?"


The effect was instantaneous. You would have thought they had touched a
leper by the way they drew themselves up and changed face.

"Never thought of that. Oh, I say--this is a complication. You
mean...?"

"I mean this," Jeremy answered dryly, because nobody could have helped
notice their change of attitude: "I was made prisoner by Arabs and