There was an impotent, crushed look about him as of one nearing the end of his strength.  The lips under the heavy grey moustache moved a little as though they formed soundless words.  He drew his breath once or twice sharply through his teeth.  Finally, with a curious groping movement he reached out and struck a small hand-gong on the table in front of him.

The door slid open instantly and an Indian soldier stood in the opening.  The Brigadier stared full at him for several seconds as if he saw nothing, his lips still moving secretly, silently.  Then suddenly, with a stiff gesture, he spoke.

“Ask the major sahib and the two captain sahibs to come to me here.”

The Indian saluted and vanished like a swift-moving shadow.

The Brigadier sank back into his chair, his head drooped forward, his hands clenched.  There was tragedy, hopeless and absolute, in every line of him.

There came the careless clatter of spurred heels and loosely-slung swords in the passage outside of the half-closed door, the sound of a stumble, a short ejaculation, and again a smothered laugh.

“Confound you Grange!  Why can’t you keep your feet to yourself, you ungainly Triton, and give us poor minnows a chance?”

The Brigadier sat upright with a jerk.  It was growing rapidly dark.

“Come in, all of you,” he said.  “I have something to say.  As well to shut the door, Ratcliffe, though it is not a council of war.”

“There being nothing left to discuss, sir,” returned the voice that had laughed.  “It is just a simple case of sitting tight now till Bassett comes round the corner.”

The Brigadier glanced up at the speaker and caught the last glow of the fading sunset reflected on his face.  It was a clean-shaven face that should have possessed a fair skin, but by reason of unfavourable circumstances it was burnt to a deep yellow-brown.  The features were pinched and wrinkled—­they might have belonged to a very old man; but the eyes that smiled down into the Brigadier’s were shrewd, bright, monkey-like.  They expressed a cheeriness almost grotesque.  The two men whom he had followed into the room stood silent among the shadows.  The gloom was such as could be felt.

Suddenly, in short, painful tones the Brigadier began to speak.

“Sit down,” he said.  “I have sent for you to ask one among you to undertake for me a certain service which must be accomplished, but which I—­” he paused and again audibly caught his breath between his teeth—­“which I—­am unable to execute for myself.”

An instant’s silence followed the halting speech.  Then the young officer who stood against the door stepped briskly forward.

“What’s the job, sir?  I’ll wager my evening skilly I carry it through.”

One of the men in the shadows moved, and spoke in a repressive tone.  “Shut up, Nick!  This is no mess-room joke.”

Nick made a sharp, half-contemptuous gesture.  “A joke only ceases to be a joke when there is no one left to laugh, sir,” he said.  “We haven’t come to that at present.”