THE OLYMPIC GAMES

“Luttrell!  Luttrell!”

Sir Charles Hardiman stood in the corridor of his steam yacht and bawled the name through a closed door.  But no answer was returned from the other side of the door.  He turned the handle and went in.  The night was falling, but the cabin windows looked towards the north and the room was full of light and of a low and pleasant music.  For the tide tinkled and chattered against the ship’s planks and, in the gardens of the town across the harbour, bands were playing.  The town was Stockholm in the year nineteen hundred and twelve, and on this afternoon, the Olympic games, that unfortunate effort to promote goodwill amongst the nations, which did little but increase rancours and disclose hatreds, had ended, never, it is to be hoped, to be resumed.

“Luttrell,” cried Hardiman again, but this time with perplexity in his voice.  For Luttrell was there in the cabin in front of him, but sunk in so deep a contemplation of memories and prospects that the cabin might just as well have been empty.  Sir Charles Hardiman touched him on the shoulder.

“Wake up, old man!”

“That’s what I am doing—­waking up,” said Luttrell, turning without any start.  He was seated in front of the writing-desk, a young man, as the world went before the war, a few months short of twenty-eight.

“The launch is waiting and everybody’s on deck,” continued Hardiman.  “We shall lose our table at Hasselbacken if we don’t get off.”

Then he caught sight of a telegram lying upon the writing-table.

“Oh!” and the impatience died out of his voice.  “Is anything the matter?”

Luttrell pushed the telegram towards his host.

“Read it!  I have got to make up my mind—­and now—­before we start.”

Hardiman read the telegram.  It was addressed to Captain Harry Luttrell, Yacht The Dragonfly, Stockholm, and it was sent from Cairo by the Adjutant-General of the Egyptian Army.

     “I can make room for you, but you must apply immediately to
     be transferred.”

Hardiman sat down in a chair by the side of the table against the wall, with his eyes on Luttrell’s face.  He was a big, softish, overfed man of forty-five, and the moment he began to relax from the upright position, his body went with a run; he collapsed rather than sat.  The little veins were beginning to show like tiny scarlet threads across his nose and on the fullness of his cheeks; his face was the colour of wine; and the pupils of his pale eyes were ringed with so pronounced an arcus senilis that they commanded the attention like a disfigurement.  But the eyes were shrewd and kindly enough as they dwelt upon the troubled face of his guest.

“You have not answered this?” he asked.

“No.  But I must send an answer to-night.”

“You are in doubt?”