and now we're
close upon the end of October--"

He could get nothing out of the C.O.'s eyes, which were bent on the
table; and little enough could he read in his face, save that it was
sombre with thought and at the same time abstracted to a degree that
gave the boy a sudden uncanny feeling. It was like watching a man in
the travail of second sight, and all the queerer because he had never
seen an expression even remotely resembling it on the face of this
hero of his, with whose praise he filled his home-letters--"One of
the best: never flurried: and, what's more, you never catch him off
his game by any chance."

Otway's jaw twitched once, very slightly. He put out a hand to pick
up his pen and resume writing; but in the act fell back into the
brown study, the trance, the rapt gaze at a knot in the woodwork of
the table. His hand rested for a moment by the ink-pot around which
his fingers felt, like a blind man's softly making sure of its
outline and shape. He withdrew it to his tunic-pocket, pulled out
pipe and tobacco-pouch and began to fill. . . .

At this point in came young Yarrell-Smith. Young Yarrell-Smith wore
a useful cloak--French cavalry pattern--of black mackintosh, with a
hood. It dripped and shone in the lamplight.

"Beastly night," he announced to the company in general and turned to
report to Otway, who had sat up alert on the instant.

"Yes," quoted Otway,

"'Thou comest from thy voyage--
Yes, the spray is on thy cloak and hair.'"

That's Matthew Arnold, if the information conveys anything to you.
Everything quiet?"

"Quite quiet, sir, for the last twenty minutes; and the Captain just
come in and unloading. No accidents, though they very nearly met
their match, five hundred yards down the road."

"We heard," said Polkinghorne.

"I tucked the Infant into his little O.P., and left him comfy.
He won't see anything there to-night."

"He'll _think_ he does," said Sammy Barham with conviction.

"The Infant is quite a good Infant," Otway observed; and then,
sinking his voice a tone, "Lord, if at his age I'd had his sense of
responsibility . . ."

Barham noted the change of tone, though he could not catch the words.
Again he threw a quick look towards his senior. Something was wrong
with him, something unaccountable. . . .

Yarrell-Smith noted nothing. "Well, he won't see anything to-night,
sir; and if Sammy will pull himself together and pity the sorrows of
a poor you