He went straight to the Tudor’s bungalow without giving himself time to flinch from the interview that he had made up his mind he must have.

The major sahib was in, the khitmutgar told him and Phil scribbled an urgent message on his card and sent it to him.  Two minutes later he was shown into his superior officer’s presence, and he realised that he stood committed to the gravest task he had ever undertaken.

Major Tudor was sitting unoccupied before the writing-table in his smoking-room, but he rose as Phil entered.  His face was composed as usual.

“Well, Mr. Turner?” he said, as Phil came heavily forward.

Phil, more nervous than he had ever been before, halted in front of him.

“I came to speak to you, sir,” he said with an effort, “to—­to explain—­”

Tudor was standing with his back to the light.  He made no attempt to help him out of his difficulties.

Phil came to an abrupt pause; then, as if some inner force had suddenly come to his assistance, he straightened himself and tackled the matter afresh.

“I came to tell you, sir,” he said, meeting Tudor’s eyes squarely, “that I have nothing to be ashamed of.  In case”—­he paused momentarily—­“you should misunderstand what you saw half an hour ago, I thought it better to speak at once.”

“Very prudent,” said Tudor.  “But—­it is quite unnecessary.  I do not misunderstand.”

He spoke deliberately and coldly.  But Phil clenched his hands.  The words cut him like a whip.

“You refuse to believe me?” he said.

Tudor did not answer.

“I must trouble you for an answer,” Phil said, forcing himself to speak quietly.

“As you please,” said Tudor, in the same cold tone.  “I have a question to put first.  Had I not chanced to see what took place, would you have sought this interview?”

The blood rose in a hot wave to Phil’s head, but he did not wince or hesitate.

“Of course I shouldn’t,” he said.

Tudor made a curt gesture as of dismissal.

“Out of your own mouth—­” he said, and turned contemptuously away.

Phil stood quite still for the space of ten seconds, then the young blood in him suddenly mounted to fever pitch.  He strode up to his major, and seized him fiercely by the shoulder.

“I won’t bear this from any man,” he said between his teeth.  “I am as honourable as you are!  If you say—­or insinuate—­otherwise, I—­by Heaven—­I’ll kill you!”

The passionate words ceased, and there followed a silence more terrible than any speech.  Tudor stood absolutely motionless, facing the young subaltern who towered over him, without a sign of either anger or dismay.

Then at last, very slowly and quietly, he spoke: 

“You have made a mistake.  Take your hand away.”

Phil’s hand dropped to his side.  He was white to the lips.  Yet he would not relinquish his purpose at a word.