Little Mildred stood at the colonel’s side talking in his ear. ‘Will you be good enough to take your seats please, gentlemen!’ he said, and the mess dropped into the chairs. Only Dirkovitch’s seat, next to little Mildred’s, was blank, and little Mildred himself had found Hira Singh’s place. The wide-eyed mess-sergeant filled the glasses in deep silence. Once more the colonel rose, but his hand shook and the port spilled on the table as he looked straight at the man in little Mildred’s chair and said hoarsely, ‘Mr. Vice, the Queen.’ There was a little pause, but the man sprung to his feet and answered without hesitation, ‘The Queen, God bless her!’ and as he emptied the thin glass he snapped the shank between his fingers. Long and long ago, when the Empress of India was a young woman and there were no unclean ideals in the land, it was the custom of a few messes to drink the Queen’s toast in broken glass, to the vast delight of the mess-contractors. The custom is now dead, because there is nothing to break anything for, except now and again the word of a Government, and that has been broken already. ‘That settles it,’ said the colonel, with a gasp. ‘He’s not a sergeant. What in the world is he?’ The entire mess echoed the word, and the volley of questions would have scared any man. It was no wonder that the ragged, filthy invader could only smile and shake his head. From under the table, calm and smiling, rose Dirkovitch, who had been roused from healthful slumber by feet upon his body. By the side of the man he rose, and the man shrieked and grovelled. It was a horrible sight coming so swiftly upon the pride and glory of the toast that had brought the strayed wits together. Dirkovitch made no offer to raise him, but little Mildred heaved him up in an instant. It is not good that a gentleman who can answer to the Queen’s toast should lie at the feet of a subaltern of Cossacks. The hasty action tore the wretch’s upper clothing nearly to the waist, and his body was seamed with dry black scars. There is only one weapon in the world that cuts: in parallel lines, and it is neither the cane nor the cat. Dirkovitch saw the marks, and the pupils of his eyes dilated. Also his face changed. He said something that sounded like Shto ve takete, and the man fawning answered, Chetyre. ‘What’s that?’ said everybody together. ‘His number. That is number four, you know.’ Dirkovitch spoke very thickly. ‘What has a Queen’s officer to do with a qualified number?’ said the Colonel, and an unpleasant growl ran round the table. ‘How can I tell?’ said the affable Oriental with a sweet smile. ‘He is a--how you have it?--escape--run-a-way, from over there.’ He nodded towards the darkness of the night.