And considering what good friends we are (under fire together and
all that) I conclude that there is nothing there to boast of.
Neither is my friendship, as a matter of fact."

Mills' face was the very perfection of indifference. But I who was
looking at him, in my innocence, to discover what it all might
mean, I had a notion that it was perhaps a shade too perfect.

"My leave is a farce," Captain Blunt burst out, with a most
unexpected exasperation. "As an officer of Don Carlos, I have no
more standing than a bandit. I ought to have been interned in
those filthy old barracks in Avignon a long time ago. . . Why am I
not? Because Dona Rita exists and for no other reason on earth.
Of course it's known that I am about. She has only to whisper over
the wires to the Minister of the Interior, 'Put that bird in a cage
for me,' and the thing would be done without any more formalities
than that. . . Sad world this," he commented in a changed tone.
"Nowadays a gentleman who lives by his sword is exposed to that
sort of thing."

It was then for the first time I heard Mr. Mills laugh. It was a
deep, pleasant, kindly note, not very loud and altogether free from
that quality of derision that spoils so many laughs and gives away
the secret hardness of hearts. But neither was it a very joyous
laugh.

"But the truth of the matter is that I am 'en mission,'" continued
Captain Blunt. "I have been instructed to settle some things, to
set other things going, and, by my instructions, Dona Rita is to be
the intermediary for all those objects. And why? Because every