"You're a jolly old commissioner, sir," he mimicked, "and for two pins I'd mention you in dispatches." Bones examined the piping of his khaki jacket and extracted the pins. CHAPTER XII THE MAN WHO DID NOT SLEEP No doubt whatever but that Lieutenant Tibbetts of the Houssas had a pretty taste for romance. It led him to exercise certain latent powers of imagination and to garnish his voluminous correspondence with details of happenings which had no very solid foundation in fact. On one occasion he had called down the heavy sarcasm of his superior officer by a reference to lions--a reference which Hamilton's sister had seen and, in the innocence of her heart, had referred to in a letter to her brother. Whereupon Bones swore to himself that he would carefully avoid corresponding with any person who might have the remotest acquaintance with the remotest of Hamilton's relatives. Every mail night Captain Hamilton underwent a cross-examination which at once baffled and annoyed him. Picture a great room, the walls of varnished match-boarding, the bare floor covered in patches by skins. There are twelve windows covered with fine mesh wire and looking out to the broad verandah which runs round the bungalow. The furniture is mainly wicker work, a table or two bearing framed photographs (one has been cleared for the huge gramophone which Bones has introduced to the peaceful life of headquarters). There are no pictures on the walls save the inevitable five--Queen Victoria, King Edward, Queen Alexandra, and in a place of honour above the door the King and his Consort. A great oil lamp hangs from the centre of the boarded ceiling, and under this the big solid table at either side of which two officers write silently and industriously, for the morrow brings the mail boat. Silent until Bones looked up thoughtfully. "Do you know the Gripps, of Beckstead, dear old fellow?" "No." "None of your people know 'em?" hopefully. "No--how the dickens do I know?" "Don't get chuffy, dear old chap." Then would follow another silence, until---- "Do you happen to be acquainted with the Lomands of Fife?" "No." "I suppose none of your people know 'em?" Hamilton would put down his pen, resignation on his face. "I have never heard of the Lomands--unless you refer to the Loch Lomonds; nor to the best of my knowledge and belief are any of my relations in blood or in law in any way acquainted with them." "Cheer oh!" said Bones, gratefully. Another ten minutes, and then: "You don't know the Adamses of Oxford, do you, sir?" Hamilton, in the midst of his weekly report, chucked down his pen. "No; nor the Eves of Cambridge, nor the Serpents of Eton, nor the Angels of Harrow." "I suppose----" began Bones. "Nor are my relations on speaking terms with them. They don't know the Adamses, nor the Cains, nor the Abels, nor the Moseses, nor the Noahs." "That's all I wanted to know, sir," said an injured Bones. "There's no need to peeve, sir."