“I cannot argue the question with you, Wargrave,” said the Colonel loftily.  “You have got your orders.  Headquarters approve of my action.  I have discussed the matter with my Second in Command, and he agrees with me.  You can go.  Raymond, make out the necessary warrants for Mr. Wargrave’s journey and give him an advance of a month’s pay.  He will leave to-morrow.  Tell the Quartermaster to make the necessary arrangements.”

Frank bit his lip.  His years of discipline and the respect for authority engrained in him since his entrance to Sandhurst kept the mutinous words back.  He saluted punctiliously and, turning about smartly walked out of the Orderly Room.  In the glaring sunshine he strode out of the compound and down the white, dusty road to his bungalow, his brain in a whirl, blind to everything, seeing neither the sepoys saluting him nor his syce hurrying after him and dragging the pony by the bridle.

When he reached his house he entered the sitting-room and dropped into a chair.  His “boy” approached salaaming and asked if he should go to the Mess to order the Sahib’s breakfast to be got ready.  Wargrave waved him away impatiently.

He sat staring unseeingly at the wall.  He could not think coherently.  He felt dazed.  His bewildered brain seemed to be revolving endlessly round the thought of the telegram from Headquarters and the Colonel’s words “I will not have an officer like you under my command.”  What was the meaning of it all?  What had he done?  A pang shot through him at the sudden remembrance of Colonel Trevor’s assertion that Major Hepburn agreed with him.  Frank held the Second in Command in high respect, for he knew him to be an exceptionally good soldier and a gentleman in every sense of the word.  Had he so disgraced himself then that Hepburn considered the Colonel’s action justified?  But how?

He shifted uneasily in his chair and his eyes fell on Mrs. Norton’s portrait.  At the sight of it his Company Commander’s advice to him about her and Mrs. Trevor’s spiteful remarks flashed across his mind.  Could Violet be mixed up in all this?  Was his friendship with her perhaps the cause of the trouble?  He dismissed the idea at once.  There was nothing to be ashamed of in their relations.

A figure darkened the doorway.  It was Raymond.  Wargrave sprang up and rushed to him.

“What in Heaven’s name is it all about, Ray?” he cried.  “Is the Colonel mad?”

The adjutant took off his helmet and flung it on the table.

“Well, tell me.  What the devil have I done?” said his friend impatiently.

Raymond tried to speak but failed.

“Go on, man.  What is it?” cried Wargrave, seizing his arm.

The adjutant burst out: 

“It’s a damned shame, old man.  I’m sorry.”

“But what is it?  What is it, I say?” cried Wargrave, shaking him.

The adjutant nodded his head towards the big photograph on the writing-table.