“Of course they couldn’t,” he agreed.  “By-the-bye, have you obtained your papers for Boulogne yet?”

“I expect to be going next week.  Lady Headley promised to let me know this afternoon.  Now I’ll take you down to the War Office, if you like.”

He took his place once more by her side.

“Hugh,” she inquired, “have you any idea who fired that shot?”

“None whatever,” he replied, “no definite idea, that is to say.  It was some one who as driving a low, grey car.  Do we know any one who possesses such a thing?”

She frowned.  The exigencies of the traffic prevented her glancing towards him.

“Only Captain Granet,” she remarked, “and I suppose even your dislike of him doesn’t go so far as to suggest that he is likely to play the would-be murderer in broad daylight.”

“It certainly does seem a rather rash and unnecessary proceeding,” he assented, “but the fact remains that some one thought it worth while.”

“Some one with a grudge against the Chief Inspector of Hospitals,” she observed drily.

He did not reply.  They drew up outside the War Office.

“Thank you very much,” he said, “for playing the Good Samaritan.”

She made a little grimace.  Suddenly her manner became more earnest.  She laid her fingers upon his arm as he stood on the pavement by her side.

“Hugh,” she said, “before you go let me tell you something.  I think that the real reason why I lost some of my affection for you was because you persisted in treating me without any confidence at all.  The little things which may have happened to you abroad, the little details of your life, the harmless side of your profession—­there were so many things I should have been interested in.  And you told me nothing.  There were things which seemed to demand an explanation with regard to your position.  You ignored them.  You seemed to enjoy moving in a mysterious atmosphere.  It’s worse than ever now.  I am intelligent, am I not—­trustworthy?”

“You are both,” he admitted gravely.  “Thank you very much for telling me this, Geraldine.”

“You still have nothing to say to me?” she asked, looking him in the face.

“Nothing,” he replied.

She nodded, slipped in her clutch and drove off.  Surgeon-Major Thomson entered the War Office and made his way up many stairs and along many wide corridors to a large room on the top floor of the building.  Two men were seated at desks, writing.  He passed them by with a little greeting and entered an inner apartment.  A pile of letters stood upon his desk.  He examined them one by one, destroyed some, made pencil remarks upon others.  Presently there was a tap at the door and Ambrose entered.

“Chief’s compliments and he would be glad if you would step round to his room at once, sir,” he announced.

Thomson locked his desk, made his way to the further end of the building and was admitted through a door by which a sentry was standing, to an anteroom in which a dozen people were waiting.  His guide passed him through to an inner apartment, where a man was seated alone.  He glanced up at Thomson’s entrance.