Monck had already
shown that he was not proof against Stella's charms. He wondered what
Stella thought of the man, well knowing that few women liked him, and
one evening, as they sat together in the scented darkness with the roar
of their mountain-stream filling the silences, he turned their fitful
conversation in Monck's direction to satisfy his lazy curiosity in this
respect.

"I suppose I ought to write to the fellow," he said, "but if you've
written to Tommy it's almost the same thing. Besides, I don't suppose he
would be in the smallest degree interested. He would only be bored."

There was a pause before Stella answered; but she was often slow of
speech in those days. "I thought you were friends," she said.

"What? Oh, so we are." Ralph Dacre laughed, his easy, complacent laugh.
"But he's a dark horse, you know. I never know quite how to take him.
Your brother Tommy is a deal more intimate with him than I am, though I
have stabled with him for over four years. He's a very clever fellow,
there's no doubt of that--altogether too brainy for my taste. Clever
fellows always bore me. Now I wonder how he strikes you."

Again there was that slight pause before Stella spoke, but there was
nothing very vital about it. She seemed to be slow in bringing her mind
to bear upon the subject. "I agree with you," she said then. "He is
clever. And he is kind too. He has been very good to Tommy."

"Tommy would lie down and let him walk over him," remarked Dacre.
"Perhaps that is what he likes. But he's a cold-blooded sort of cuss. I
don't believe he has a spark of real affection for anybody. He is too
ambitious."

"Is he ambitious?" Stella's voice sounded rather weary, wholly void of
interest.

Dacre inhaled a deep breath of cigar-smoke and puffed it slowly forth.
His curiosity was warming. "Oh yes, ambitious as they're made. Those
strong, silent chaps always are. And there's no doubt he will make his
mark some day. He is a positive marvel at languages. And he dabbles in
Secret Service matters too, disguises himself and goes among the natives
in the bazaars as one of themselves. A fellow like that, you know, is
simply priceless to the Government. And he is as tough as leather. The
climate never touches him. He could sit on a grille and be happy. No
doubt he will be a very big pot some day." He tipped the ash from his
cigar. "You and I will be comfortably growing old in a villa at
Cheltenham by that time," he ended.

A litt