The Indian saluted and vanished like a swift-moving shadow.

The Brigadier sank back into his chair, his head drooped forward, his
hands clenched. There was tragedy, hopeless and absolute, in every
line of him.

There came the careless clatter of spurred heels and loosely-slung
swords in the passage outside of the half-closed door, the sound of a
stumble, a short ejaculation, and again a smothered laugh.

"Confound you Grange! Why can't you keep your feet to yourself, you
ungainly Triton, and give us poor minnows a chance?"

The Brigadier sat upright with a jerk. It was growing rapidly dark.

"Come in, all of you," he said. "I have something to say. As well to
shut the door, Ratcliffe, though it is not a council of war."

"There being nothing left to discuss, sir," returned the voice that
had laughed. "It is just a simple case of sitting tight now till
Bassett comes round the corner."

The Brigadier glanced up at the speaker and caught the last glow of
the fading sunset reflected on his face. It was a clean-shaven face
that should have possessed a fair skin, but by reason of unfavourable
circumstances it was burnt to a deep yellow-brown. The features were
pinched and wrinkled--they might have belonged to a very old man; but
the eyes that smiled down into the Brigadier's were shrewd, bright,
monkey-like. They expressed a cheeriness almost grotesque. The two men
whom he had followed into the room stood silent among the shadows. The