Merryon's face changed a very little. The iron-grey eyes became stony,
quite expressionless. He stood a moment listening. Then, "Stay here!" he
said, his voice very level and composed. "Yes, Puck, I wish it. Stay
here!"

It was a distinct command, the most distinct he had ever given her. Her
clinging hands slipped from his arm. She stood rigid, unprotesting,
white as death.

The knocking was renewed with fevered energy as Merryon turned quietly
to obey the summons. He closed the door upon his wife and went down the
passage.

There was no haste in his movements as he slipped back the bolts, rather
the studied deliberation of purpose of a man armed against all
emergency. But the door burst inwards against him the moment he opened
it, and one of his subalterns, young Harley, almost fell into his arms.

Merryon steadied him with the utmost composure. "Halloa, Harley! You, is
it? What's all this noise about?"

The boy pulled himself together with an effort. He was white to the
lips.

"There's cholera broken out," he said. "Forbes and Robey--both down--at
their own bungalow. And they've got it at the barracks, too.
Macfarlane's there. Can you come?"

"Of course--at once." Merryon pulled him forward. "Go in there and get a
drink while I speak to my wife!"