He feasted his eyes upon it.

Suddenly a voice, a voice he disliked intensely, the voice of Mr. Dearman croaked fiendishly in his ear:  “Why, General, they’ve got your horse numbered wrongly!”

General Miltiades Murger looked again.  Upon the arm of Rissaldar-Major Shere Singh was the number 66.

Opening his programme with trembling fingers he found his name, his horse’s name, and number 99!

He rose to his feet, stammering and gesticulating.  As he did so the words:—­

“Take out number 66,” were distinctly borne to the ears of the serried ranks of the fashionable in the Grand Stand.  Certain military-looking persons at the back abandoned all dignity and fell upon each other’s necks, poured great libations, danced, called upon their gods, or fell prostrate upon settees.

Others, seated among the ladies, looked into their bats as though in church.

“Has Ross-Ellison faked it?” ran from mouth to mouth, and, “He’ll be hung for this”.

A minute or so later the Secretary approached the Grand Stand and announced in stentorian tones: 

“First Prize—­General Murger’s Darling, Number 99”.

While behind him upon Zuleika, chosen of the Judges, sat and smiled Mr. John Robin Ross-Ellison, who lifted his voice and said:  “Thanks—­No!—­This horse is mine and is named Zuleika.”  He looked rather un-English, rather cunning, cruel and unpleasant—­quite different somehow, from his ordinary cheery, bright English self.

* * * * *

“Old” Brigadier General Miltiades Murger was unique among British Generals in that he sometimes resorted to alcoholic stimulants beyond reasonable necessity and had a roving and a lifting eye for a pretty woman.  In one sense the General had never taken a wife—­and, in another, he had taken several.  Indeed it was said of him by jealous colleagues that the hottest actions in which he had ever been engaged were actions for divorce or breach of promise, and that this type of imminent deadly breach was the kind with which he was best acquainted.  Also that he was better at storming the citadel of a woman’s heart than at storming anything else.

No eminent man is without jealous detractors.

As to the stimulants, make no mistake and jump to no hasty conclusions.  General Murger had never been seen drunk in the whole of his distinguished and famous (or as the aforesaid colleagues called it, egregious and notorious) career.

On the other hand, the voice of jealousy said he had never been seen sober either.  In the words of envy, hatred, malice and all uncharitableness it declared that he had been born fuddled, had lived fuddled, and would die fuddled.  And there were ugly stories.

Also some funny ones—­one of which concerns the, Gungapur Fusilier Volunteer Corps and Colonel Dearman, their beloved but shortly retiring (and, as some said, their worthy) Commandant.