gloom was such as could be felt.

Suddenly, in short, painful tones the Brigadier began to speak.

"Sit down," he said. "I have sent for you to ask one among you to
undertake for me a certain service which must be accomplished, but
which I--" he paused and again audibly caught his breath between his
teeth--"which I--am unable to execute for myself."

An instant's silence followed the halting speech. Then the young
officer who stood against the door stepped briskly forward.

"What's the job, sir? I'll wager my evening skilly I carry it
through."

One of the men in the shadows moved, and spoke in a repressive tone.
"Shut up, Nick! This is no mess-room joke."

Nick made a sharp, half-contemptuous gesture. "A joke only ceases
to be a joke when there is no one left to laugh, sir," he said. "We
haven't come to that at present."

He stood in front of the Brigadier for a moment--an insignificant
figure but for the perpetual suggestion of simmering activity that
pervaded him; then stepped behind the commanding officer's chair, and
there took up his stand without further words.

The Brigadier paid no attention to him. His mind was fixed upon one
subject only. Moreover, no one ever took Nick Ratcliffe seriously. It
seemed a moral impossibility.