his mess-jacket that the servant had laid on a chair, "there'd not be
much ground that I can see for action of any kind. He has a right to
go where he likes."

That point of view did not seem to have occurred to Warrington
before; nor did he quite like it, for he frowned.

"On the other hand," said Kirby, diving into his mess-jacket and
shrugging his neat shoulders until they fitted into it as a charger
fits into his skin, "under the circumstances--and taking into
consideration certain private information that has reached me--if I
were supposed to be behind a bolted door in the bazaar, I'd rather
appreciate it if Ranjoor Singh, for instance, were to--ah--take
action of some kind."

"Exactly, sir."

"Hallo--what's that?"

* * * * *

A motor-car, driven at racing speed, thundered up the lane between
the old stacked cannon and came to a panting standstill by the
colonel's outer door. A gruff question was answered gruffly, and a
man's step sounded on the veranda. Then the servant flung the door
wide, and a British soldier stepped smartly into the room, saluted
and held out a telegram.

Kirby tore it open. His eyes blazed, but his hands were steady. The
soldier held out a receipt book and a pencil, and Kirby took time to