dine said quietly, "until the end of the
war."

Granet brought his car to a standstill outside the portals of that very
august club in Pall Mall. The hall-porter took in his name and a few
minutes his uncle joined him in the strangers' room.

"Back again so soon, Ronnie?"

Granet nodded.

"America's off," he announced shortly. "I thought I'd better let you
know. It must be the whole thing now."

Sir Alfred was silent for a moment.

"Very well," he said at last, "only remember this, my boy--there must be
no more risks. You've been sailing quite close enough to the wind."

"Did you call at the War Office?" Granet asked quickly.

His uncle assented.

"I did and I saw General Brice. He admitted in confidence that they
weren't very keen about your rejoining. Nothing personal," he went on
quickly, "nothing serious, that is to say. There is a sort of impression
out there that you've brought them bad luck."

Granet shrugged his shoulders.

"Well," he said, "they know their own business best. What I am afraid of
is being saddled with some rotten home duty."

"You need not be afraid of that any more, Ronnie," his uncle told him
calmly.

Granet turned quickly around.

"Do you mean that they don't want to give me anything at all?" he
demanded anxiously.

Sir Alfred shook his head.

"You are too impetuous, Ronnie. They're willing enough to give you a
home command, but I have asked that it should be left over for a little
time, so as to leave you free."

"You have something in your mind, then--something definite?"

Sir Alfred looked out of the window for a moment. Then he laid his hand
upon his nephew's shoulder.

"I think I can promise you, Ronnie," he said seriously, "that before
many days have passed you shall have all the occupation you want."

CHAPTER XXVI

Surgeon-Major Thomson reeled for a moment and caught at the paling by
his side. Then he recovered himself almost as quickly, and, leaning
forward, gazed eagerly at the long, grey racing-car which was already
passing Buckingham Palace and almost out of sight in the slight morning
fog. There was a very small cloud of white smoke drifting away into
space, and a faint smell of gunpowder in the air. He felt his cheek and,
withdrawing his fingers, gazed at them with a little nervous laugh--they
were wet with blood.

He looked up and down the broad pathway. For nine o'clock in the morning
the Birdcage Walk was marvellously deserted. A girl, however,