Sir Reginald’s eyes met his.  “Are you,” he said calmly, “trying to establish any connection between the death of Dacre and the absence from Kurrumpore of this man Rustam Karin?”

“Not only Rustam Karin, sir,” responded the Major sharply.

“Ah!  Quite so.  How did Dacre die?” Sir Reginald still spoke quietly, judicially.  There was nothing encouraging in his aspect.

Burton hesitated momentarily, as if some inner warning prompted him to go warily.

“That was what no one knew for certain, sir.  He disappeared one night.  The story went that he fell over a precipice.  Some old native beggar told the tale.  No one knows who the man was.”

“But you have your eye upon Rustam Karin?” suggested Sir Reginald.

Burton hesitated again.  “One doesn’t trust these fellows, sir,” he said.

“True!” Sir Reginald’s voice sounded very dry.  “Perhaps it is a mistake to trust any one too far.  This is all the evidence you can muster?”

“Yes, sir.”  Burton looked suddenly embarrassed.  “Of course it is not evidence, strictly speaking,” he said.  “But when mysteries coincide, one is apt to link them together.  And the death of Captain Dacre always seemed to me highly mysterious.”

“The death of Captain Ermsted was no less so,” put in the Colonel abruptly.  “Have you any theories on that subject also?”

Burton smiled, showing his teeth.  “I always have theories,” he said.

Sir Reginald made a slight movement of impatience.  “I think this is beside the point,” he said.  “Captain Ermsted’s murderer will probably be traced one day.”

“Probably, sir,” agreed Major Burton, “since I hear unofficially that Captain Monck has the matter in hand.  Ah!”

He broke off short as, with a brief knock at the door, Monck himself made an abrupt appearance.

He came forward as if he saw no one in the room but the Colonel.  His face wore a curiously stony look, but his eyes burned with a fierce intensity.  He spoke without apology or preliminary of any sort.

“I have just had a message, sir, from Bhulwana,” he said.  “I wish to apply for immediate leave.”

The Colonel looked at him in surprise.  “A message, Captain Monck?”

“From my wife,” Monck said, and drew a hard breath between his teeth.  His hands were clenched hard at his sides.  “I’ve got to go!” he said.  “I’ve got to go!”

There was a moment’s silence.  Then:  “May I see the message?” said the Colonel.

Monck’s eyelids flickered sharply, as if he had been struck across the face.  He thrust out his right hand and flung a crumpled paper upon the table.  “There, sir!” he said harshly.

There was violence in the action, but it did not hold insolence.  Sir Reginald leaning forward, was watching him intently.  As the Colonel, with a word of excuse to himself, took up and opened the paper, he rose quietly and went up to Monck.  Thin, wiry, grizzled, he stopped beside him.