Vaughan, wondered whether the voyage home had restored his health,
discussed the probable length of his leave, and speculated as to the
nature of his illness; the telegram had of course given no details.

"There has not been even a photograph for the last five years," he
remarked, as we walked down to the quay together. "Yet I think I
should know him anywhere, if it is only by his height. He used to
look so well on horseback. I remember as a child seeing him in a
sham fight charging up Caesar's Camp."

"How old were you when he went out?"

"Oh, quite a small boy," replied Derrick. "It was just before I
first stayed with you. However, he has had a regular succession of
photographs sent out to him, and will know me easily enough."

Poor Derrick! I can't think of that day even now without a kind of
mental shiver. We watched the great steamer as it glided up to the
quay, and Derrick scanned the crowded deck with eager eyes, but
could nowhere see the tall, soldierly figure that had lingered so
long in his memory. He stood with his hand resting on the rail of
the gangway, and when presently it was raised to the side of the
steamer, he still kept his position, so that he could instantly
catch sight of his father as he passed down. I stood close behind
him, and watched the motley procession of passengers; most of them
had the dull colourless skin which bespeaks long residence in India,
and a particularly yellow and peevish-looking old man was grumbling
loudly as he slowly made his way down the gangway.

"The most disgraceful scene!" he remarked. "The fellow was as drunk