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
scribble his initials in the proper place. Warrington, humming to
himself, began to squeeze the rain out of his tunic to hide
impatience. The soldier saluted, faced about and hurried to the
waiting car.
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