It happened that on the morning on which this missive came to Kennedy Place, Von Baumser had not gone to the City. The major had just performed his toilet and was marching up and down with a cigarette in his mouth and the United Service Gazette in his hand, descanting fluently, as is the habit of old soldiers, on the favouritism of the Horse Guards and the deterioration of the service.
“Look at this fellow Carmoichael!” he cried excitedly, slapping the paper with one, hand, while he crumpled it up with the other. “They’ve made him lieutinant-gineral! The demndest booby in the regiment, sir! A fellow who’s seen no service and never heard a shot fired in anger. They promoted him on the stringth of a sham fight, bedad! He commanded a definding force operating along the Thames and opposing an invading army that was advancing from Guildford. Did iver ye hear such infernal nonsense in your life? And there’s Stares, and Knight, and Underwood, and a dozen more I could mintion, that have volunteered for everything since the Sikh war of ’46, all neglicted, sir—neglicted! The British Army is going straight to the divil.”
“Dat’s a very bad look-out for the devil,” said Von Baumser, filling up a cup of coffee.
The major continued to stride angrily about the room. “That’s why we niver have a satisfactory campaign with a European foe,” he broke out. “Our success is always half and half, and leads to nothing. Yet we have the finest raw material and the greatest individual fighting power and divilment of any army in the world.”
“Always, of course, not counting de army of his most graceworthy majesty de Emperor William,” said Von Baumser, with his mouth full of toast. “Here is de girl mit a letter. Let us hope dat it is my Frankfort money.”
“Two to one it’s for me.”
“Ah, he must not bet!” cried Von Baumser, with upraised finger.
“You have right, though. It is for you, and from de proper quarter too,
I think.”
It was the letter which we have already quoted. The major broke the seal and read it over very carefully, after which he read it again. Von Baumser, watching him across the table, saw a very anxious and troubled look upon his ruddy face.
“I hope dere is nothing wrong mit my good vriend, Madame Scully?” he remarked at last.
“No, nothing wrong with her. There is with some one else, though;” and with that he read to his companion all that part of his letter which referred to Miss Harston.
“Dat is no joke at all,” the German remarked; and the two sat for some little time lost in thought, the major with the letter still lying open upon his knee.
“What d’ye think of it?” he asked at last.
“I think dat it is a more bad thing than the good madame seems to think. I think dat if Miss Harston says dat Herr Girdlestone intends to kill her, it is very likely dat he has dat intention”
