uch more interested in Catesby, who would face a
firing party sooner than soak another fellow for his own fault.
Catesby assures me in writing that the first he ever heard of
that TNT was when you ordered him arrested after discovery of the
loss. His word goes, as far as I'm concerned. If you want me to
help you, find another goat than Catesby. That's my answer."

There followed quite a long pause. Perhaps Brigadier-General
Jenkins was wondering what chance he would stand in a show-down.
Whoever had heard the mess and canteen gossip knew that Jenkins'
career had been one long string of miracles by which he had
attained promotion without in any way deserving it, and a
parallel series of even greater ones by which he had saved
himself from ruin by contriving to blame some one else.

"You want me to white-wash Catesby?" he said at last. "If you
pounce quickly on the TNT, no one need know it was lost."

"If you court-martial Catesby, the public shall know who lost it,
and who didn't, even if it costs me my commission!"

"Blast you! Insubordination!"

"Is your car outside?" Grim answered. "Why don't you drive me up
to the Administrator and charge me with it?"

"Don't be an idiot! I came to you to avoid a scandal. If this
news gets out there'll be a panic. Things are touchy enough as
it is."

"Yes."

"Well--if I drop the charge against Catesby--?"

"Then I shall not have to fight for him."

"I'll see what I can do."

"Be definite!"

"Damn and blast you! All right, I'll clear Catesby."

In that ominous minute, like the devil in an old-time drama,
Suliman knocked at the door leading from the outer hall. Grim
opened it, and I heard the boy's voice piping up in Arabic. The
Administrator was in his car outside, waiting to know whether
Major Grim was indoors.

"Where's your car?" I heard Grim ask.

"I sent the man to get a tire changed," Jenkins answered.

"Then Sir Louis needn't know you're here. Do you want to
see him?"

"Of course not."

"You can get behind that screen if you like."

I thought Jenkins would explode when he found me sitting there.
He was a big, florid-faced man with a black moustache waxed into
points, and a neck the color of rare roast beef--a man not given
to self-restraint in any shape or form. But he had to make a
quick decision. Sir Louis' footsteps were approaching. He
glared at me, made a sign to me to sit still, twisted his
moustache savagely, and listened, bre