Upon descending to the coffee-room in the morning, he found Mr. Despard sitting somewhat moodily at the table. Harwood was beginning to think, now that Mr. Despard's mission in life had been performed, there could be no reason why his companionship should be sought. But Mr. Despard was not at all disposed to allow his rapidly conceived friendship for Harwood to be cut short. “Hallo, Mr. Editor, you're down at last, are you?” he cried. “The colonel didn't go up to, your room, you bet, though he did to me--fine old boy is he, by my soul--plenty of good work in him yet.” “The colonel? Was Colonel Gerald here?” asked Harwood. “He was, Mr. Editor; he was here just to see me, and have a friendly morning chat. We've taken to each other, has the colonel and me.” “He heard that Markham had gone? You told him, no doubt?” “Mr. Editor, sir,” said Despard, rising to his feet and keeping himself comparatively steady by grasping the edge of the table,--“Mr. Editor, there are things too sacred to be divulged even to the Press. There are feelings--emotions--chords of the human heart--you know all that sort of thing--the bond of friendship between the colonel and me is something like that. What I told him will never be divulged while I'm sober. Oswin had his faults, no doubt, but for that matter I have mine. Which of us is perfect, Mr. Editor? Why, here's this innocent-looking lad that's coming to me with another bottle of old Irish, hang me if he isn't a walking receptacle of bribery and corruption! What, are you off?” Mr. Harwood was off, nor did he think if necessary to go through the formality of shaking hands with the moraliser at the table. It was on the day following that Mrs. Crawford called at Colonel Gerald's cottage at Mowbray. She gave a start when she saw that the little hall was blocked up with packing-cases. One of them was an old military camp-box, and upon the end of it was painted in dimly white letters the name “Lieutenant George Gerald.” Seeing it now as she had often seen it in the days at the Indian station, the poor old campaigner sat down on a tin uniform-case and burst into tears. “Kate, dear good Kate,” said Colonel Gerald, laying his hand on her shoulder. “What is the matter, my dear girl?” “Oh, George, George!” sobbed the lady, “look at that case there--look at it, and think of the words you spoke to me two nights ago. Oh, George, George!” “God forgive me, Kate, I was unjust--ungenerous. Oh, Kate, you do not know how I had lost myself as the bitter truth was forced upon me. You have forgiven me long ago, have you not?” “I have, George,” she said, putting her hand in his. “God knows I have forgiven you. But what is the meaning of this? You are not going away, surely?” “We leave by the mail to-morrow, Kate,” said the colonel. “Good gracious, is it so bad as that?” asked the lady, alarmed.