There was something in his tone that might have been envy or perhaps mere admiration; for this man knew himself to be inferior in many ways to him who had first crossed the mountain pass on which he stood. “The worst of it is,” went on the great officer, “that you are telegraphed home as killed.” He paused on the last word, watching its effect. It would seem that, behind the busy black eyes, there was the beginning of a thought hatched within the grey close-cut head which, _en fait de têtes,_ was without its rival in the Empire. “That is soon remedied,” opined the Major with a cheerful laugh. “Ye--es!” The great man was thoughtfully rubbing his chin with the tips of the first and second fingers, drawing in his under lip at the same time, and apparently taking pleasure in the rasping sound caused by the friction over the shaven chin. There is usually something written in the human countenance--some single virtue, vice, or quality which dominates all petty characteristics. Most faces express weakness--the faces that pass one in the streets. Some are the incarnation of meanness, some pleasanter types verge on sensuality. The face of the man who sat watching Agar expressed indomitable, invincible determination, and _nothing else_. It was the face of one who was ready to sacrifice any one, even himself, to a single all-pervading purpose. In this respect he was a splendid commander, for he was as nearly heartless as men are made. The big fair Englishman who had occupied Mistley's Plateau for a week, exactly one hundred and seventy miles from assistance of any description, and in the heart of the enemy's country, smiled down at his companion with a simple wonder. “Got something up your sleeve, sir?” he inquired softly, for he knew somewhat of his superior officer's ways. “Yes!” replied the other curtly. “A trump card!” He continued to look at Jem Agar with a cold and calculating scrutiny, as a jockey may look at his horse or a butcher at living meat. “It's like this,” he said. “You're dead. I want you to stay dead for a little while--say six months to a year!” Agar seated himself on the corner of the table, which creaked under the weight of his spare muscular person, and then, true to his cloth, he awaited further orders; true to his nature, he waited in silence. After a short pause the other proceeded to explain. “You frontier men,” he said, “are closely watched; we know that. There will be great rejoicing over there, in Northern Europe, over this mishap to Stevenor, although, God knows, he was not a very dangerous man. Not so dangerous as you, Agar. They will be delighted to hear that you are out of the way. Stay out of the way for a year, and during that twelve months you will be able to do more than you could get done in twelve years when you were being watched by them.” “I see,” answered Agar quietly. “Not dead, but gone--up country.” “Precisely so; where they certainly will not be on the look-out for you.”