There was dead silence in the room as he put the question—­a silence, so full of expectancy as to be almost painful.  Across the table the eyes of the two brothers met and held.

Then, “I have not,” said Everard Monck with quiet finality.

There was no note of challenge in his voice, neither was there any dismay.  But the effect of his words upon every man present was as if he had flung a bomb into their midst.  The silence endured tensely for a couple of seconds, then there came a hard breath and a general movement as if by common consent the company desired to put an end to a situation, that had become unendurable.

Bertie Oakes dug Tommy in the ribs, but Tommy was as white as death and did not even feel it.  Something had happened, something that made him feel giddy and very sick.  That significant silence was to him nothing short of tragedy.  He had seen his hero topple at a touch from the high pinnacle on which he had placed him, and he felt as if the very ground under his feet had become a quicksand.

As in a maze of shifting impressions he heard Sir Reginald valiantly covering the sudden breach, talking inconsequently in a language which Tommy could not even recognize as his own.  And the Colonel was seconding his efforts, while Major Burton sat frowning at the end of his cigar as if he were trying to focus his sight upon something infinitesimal and elusive.  No one looked at Monck, in fact everyone seemed studiously to avoid doing so.  Even his brother seemed lost in meditation with his eyes fixed immovably upon a lamp that hung from the ceiling and swayed ponderously in the draught.

Then at last there came a definite move, and Bertie Oakes poked him again.  “Are you moonstruck?” he said.

Tommy got up with the rest, still feeling sick and oddly unsure of himself.  He pushed his brother-subaltern aside as if he had been an inanimate object, and somehow, groping, found his way to the door and out to the entrance for a breath of air.

It was raining heavily and the odour of a thousand intangible things hung in the atmosphere.  For a space he leaned in the doorway undisturbed; then, heralded by the smell of a rank cigar, Ralston lounged up and joined him.

“Are you looking for a safe corner to catch fever in?” he inquired phlegmatically, after a pause.

Tommy made a restless movement, but spoke no word.

Ralston smoked for a space in silence.  From behind them there came the rattle of billiard-balls and careless clatter of voices.  Before them was a pall-like darkness and the endless patter of rain.

Suddenly Ralston spoke.  “Make no mistake!” he said.  “There’s a reason for everything.”

The words sounded irrelevant; they even had a sententious ring.  Yet Tommy turned towards him with an impulsive gesture of gratitude.

“Of course!” he said.

Ralston relapsed into a ruminating silence.  A full minute elapsed before he spoke again.  Then:  “You don’t like taking advice I know,” he said, in his stolid, somewhat gruff fashion.  “But if you’re wise, you’ll swallow a stiff dose of quinine before you turn in.  Good-night!”