“You escaped all right, I’m glad to see?”

“They got Collins,” Granet said, dropping his voice almost to a whisper.  “He was shot by my side.  They caught me, too.  I’ve been in a few tight corners but nothing tighter than that.  Who do you think was sent down from the War Office to hold an inquiry?  Thomson—­that fellow Thomson!”

The banker frowned.

“Do you mean the man who is the head of the hospitals?”

“Supposed to be,” Granet answered grimly.  “I am beginning to wonder—­Tell me, you haven’t heard anything more about him, have you?”

“Not a word,” Sir Alfred replied.  “Why should I?”

“Nothing except that I have an uncomfortable feeling about him,” Granet went on.  “I wish I felt sure that he was just what he professes to be.  He is the one man who seems to suspect me.  If it hadn’t been for Isabel Worth, I was done for—­finished—­down at that wretched hole!  He had me where I couldn’t move.  The girl lied and got me out of it.”

Sir Alfred drummed for a moment with his fingers upon the table.

“I am not sure that these risks are worth while for you, Ronnie,” he said.

The young man shrugged his shoulders.  His face certainly seemed to have grown thinner during the last few days.

“I don’t mind it so much abroad,” he declared.  “It seems a different thing there, somehow.  But over here it’s all wrong; it’s the atmosphere, I suppose.  And that fellow Thomson means mischief—­I’m sure of it.”

“Is there any reason for ill-feeling between you two?” the banker inquired.

Granet nodded.

“You’ve hit it, sir.”

“Miss Conyers, eh?”

The young man’s face underwent a sudden change.

“Yes,” he confessed.  “If I hadn’t begun this, if I hadn’t gone so far into it that no other course was possible, I think that I should have been content to be just what I seem to be—­because of her.”

Sir Alfred leaned back in his chair.  He was looking at his nephew as a man of science might have looked at some interesting specimen.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose you simply confirm the experience of the ages, but, frankly, you amaze me.  You are moving amongst the big places of life, you are with those who are making history, and you would be content to give the whole thing up.  For what?  You would become a commonplace, easy-going young animal of a British soldier, for the sake of the affection of a good-looking, well-bred, commonplace British young woman.  I don’t understand you, Ronald.  You have the blood of empire-makers in your veins.  Your education and environment have developed an outward resemblance to the thing you profess to be, but behind—­don’t you fell the grip of the other things?”

“I feel them, right enough,” Granet replied.  “I have felt them for the last seven or eight years.  But I am feeling something else, too, something which I dare say you never felt, something which I have never quite believed in.”