“Hullo, Tommy!” he said, a shadowy smile about his mouth.  “What are you in such a deuce of a hurry about?”

Tommy glanced down at the letters on the table and pounced upon the one that lay uppermost.  “A letter from Stella!  And about time, too!  She isn’t much of a correspondent now-a-days.  Where are they now?  Oh, Srinagar.  Lucky beggar—­Dacre!  Wish he’d taken me along as well as Stella!  What am I in such a hurry about?  Well, my dear chap, look at the time!  You’ll be late for mess yourself if you don’t buck up.”

Tommy’s treatment of his captain was ever of the airiest when they were alone.  He had never stood in awe of Monck since the days of his illness; but even in his most familiar moments his manner was not without a certain deference.  His respect for him was unbounded, and his pride in their intimacy was boyishly whole-hearted.  There was no sacrifice great or small that he would not willingly have offered at Monck’s behest.

And Monck knew it, realized the lad’s devotion as pure gold, and valued it accordingly.  But, that fact notwithstanding, his faith in Tommy’s discretion did not move him to bestow his unreserved confidence upon him.  Probably to no man in the world could he have opened his secret soul.  He was not of an expansive nature.  But Tommy occupied an inner place in his regard, and there were some things that he veiled from all beside which he no longer attempted to hide from this faithful follower of his.  Thus far was Tommy privileged.

He got to his feet in response to the boy’s last remark.  “Yes, you’re right.  We ought to be going.  I shall be interested to hear what your sister thinks of Kashmir.  I went up there on a shooting expedition two years after I came out.  It’s a fine country.”

“Is there anywhere that you haven’t been?” said Tommy.  “I believe you’ll write a book one of these days.”

Monck looked ironical.  “Not till I’m on the shelf, Tommy,” he said, “where there’s nothing better to do.”

“You’ll never be on the shelf,” said Tommy quickly.  “You’ll be much too valuable.”

Monck shrugged his shoulders slightly and turned to go.  “I doubt if that consideration would occur to any one but you, my boy,” he said.

They walked to the mess-house together a little later through the airless dark, and there was nothing in Monck’s manner either then or during the evening to confirm the doubt in Tommy’s mind.  Spirits were not very high at the mess just then.  Nearly all the women had left for the Hills, and the increasing heat was beginning to make life a burden.  The younger officers did their best to be cheerful, and one of them, Bertie Oakes, a merry, brainless youngster, even proposed an impromptu dance to enliven the proceedings.  But he did not find many supporters.  Men were tired after the polo.  Colonel Mansfield and Major Burton were deeply engrossed with some news that had been brought by Barnes of the Police, and no one mustered energy for more than talk.