scarcely expected.

"I am prepared to go to the uttermost limit, sir," said Nicholas
Ratcliffe, his fingers closing like springs upon the hand that gripped
his, "if there is a limit. That is to say, I am ready to go through
hell for her. I am a straight shot, a cool shot, a dead shot. Will you
trust me?"

His voice throbbed with sudden feeling. General Roscoe was watching
him closely. "Can I trust you, Nick?" he said.

There was an instant's silence, and the two men in the background
were aware that something passed between them--a look or a rapid
sign--which they did not witness. Then reckless and debonair came
Nick's voice.

"I don't know, sir. But if I am untrustworthy, may I die to-night!"

General Roscoe laid his free hand upon the young man's shoulder.

"Is it so, Nick?" he said, and uttered a heavy sigh. "Well--so be it
then. I trust you."

"That settles it, sir," said Nick cheerily. "The job is mine."

He turned round with a certain arrogance of bearing, and walked to the
door. But there he stopped, looking back through the darkness at the
dim figures he had left.

"Perhaps you will tell Miss Roscoe that you have appointed me