To one of those questions Colonel Desmond already knew the answer.

“I had a line from the General this morning,” he remarked, after studying his brother’s profile and shrewdly gauging his thoughts.

True enough—­his start betrayed him.  “The General?—­Reliefs?”

“Yes.”  A pause.  “We’re for—­Lahore Cantonments.”

“Damn!”

“I’ve made that inspired remark already.  You needn’t flatter yourself it’s original!”

“I’m not in the mood to flatter myself or any one else.  I’m in a towering rage.  And if dear old Roy is to be turned down into the bargain——!” Words failed him.  He had his father’s genius for making friends; and among them all Roy Sinclair reigned supreme.

“I’m afraid he will be if I know anything of medical boards.”

“Why the devil——?” Lance flashed out.  “It’s not as if A1 officers were tumbling over each other in the service.  If Roy was a Tommy they’d jolly soon think of something better than leave and futile tonics.”

Colonel Desmond smiled at the characteristic outburst.

“Certainly their tinkering isn’t up to much.  But I’m afraid there’s more wrong with Roy than mere doctoring can touch.  Still—­he doesn’t seem keen on going Home.”

Lance shook his head.  “Naturally—­poor old chap.  Feels he can’t face things, yet.  It’s not only the delights of Mespot that have knocked him off his centre.  It’s losing—­that jewel of a mother.”  His eyes darkened with feeling.  “You can’t wonder.  If anything was to happen——­” He broke off abruptly.

Paul Desmond set his teeth and was silent.  In the deep of his heart, the Regiment had one rival—­and Lady Desmond knew it....

They found the bungalow empty.  No sign of Roy.

“Getting round ’em,” suggested Paul optimistically, and passed on into his dufter.

Lance lit a cigar, flung himself into a verandah chair and picked up the ‘Civil and Military.’  He had just scanned the war telegrams when Roy came up at a round trot.

Lance sat forward and discarded the paper.  An exchange of glances sufficed.  Roy’s determination to ‘bluff the board’ had failed.

He looked sallow in spite of sunburn; tired and disheartened; no lurking smile in his eyes.  He fondled the velvet nose of his beloved Suraj—­a graceful creature, half Arab, half Waler; and absently acknowledged the frantic jubilations of his Irish terrier puppy, christened by Lance the Holy Terror—­Terry for short.  Then he mounted the steps, subsided into the other chair and dropped his cap and whip on the ground.

“Damn the doctors,” said Lance, questions being superfluous.

That so characteristic form of sympathy moved Roy to a rueful smile.  “Obstinate devils.  I bluffed ’em all I knew.  Overdid it, perhaps.  Anyway they weren’t impressed.  They’ve dispensed with my valuable services.  Anaemia, mild neurasthenia, cardiac symptoms—­and a few other pusillanimous ailments.  Wonder they didn’t throw in housemaid’s knee!  Oh, confound ’em all!” He converted a sigh into a prolonged yawn.  “Let’s make merry over a peg, Lance.  Doctors are exhausting to argue with.  And Cuthers always said I couldn’t argue for nuts!  Now then—­how about pegs?”