"Seems to have had a tiff with beauty to-night. P'r'aps she has pitched him as she has other people before, present company not excepted. All the more likely for him to have gone off for a quiet smoke--Now where would he go?" There was a pause here, as if for someone else to answer, but as no one did-- "Down by the river," he said--"safe." Chumbley thrust his hands lower down into his pockets, and as if led by fate, he followed slowly almost the very track taken by Hilton so short a time before. Finding that portion of the extensive grounds quite solitary, Chumbley began to hum what was meant for an air, in a peculiar voice more remarkable for noise than tune--due, no doubt, to his having his cigar in his lips, at which he gravely sucked away as if keeping time to the melody he emitted with the smoke. "Grass too damp to lie down," he said to himself, "else it would be rather jolly, and I'm precious tired. Not safe though. Old Bolter would vow there was rheumatism and fever in every blade. Why the dickens don't they put garden seats down here?" He strolled on, casting his eyes about in every direction in search of his friend. "Precious dark!" he said. "Now where has old Hilton hidden himself? Hallo! Why there he is! What a jolly old lunatic he must be. I wonder what old Bolter would say?" For not very far from the bank of the stream, he could dimly make out a figure lying apparently asleep. Chumbley immediately began to think of the risks to be incurred from crocodiles, and walking quickly up he bent down over the sleeping figure. "Here--hi! Hallo! Hilton, is that you? Hang it, man, don't lie there!" There was no reply, and Chumbley hesitated as to whether he should touch the figure. "'Tisn't Hilton!" he said to himself. "One of the servants, perhaps, keeping up his Mohammedan rules on the question of wine upon the wrong side." "Hallo! you sir!" he cried aloud. "'Tisn't safe to lie there; do you hear?" and going down on one knee, he turned the figure completely over. "Here wake up or the crocs will have you! Is anything the matter?" "Help me up," came in reply, spoken in good English. Chumbley was too earnest a man to resist that appeal; and bending lower, he tried to pass one hand beneath the prostrate figure, the man feebly laying his hands upon the lieutenant the while. Then, in an instant, the feeble clasp became one of iron; and before Chumbley could more than realise that he was being held, a second figure bounded from behind a bush on to his back, dexterously throwing a sort of bag over his head and drawing it tight about his neck. The young officer was taken by surprise; but he was not so easy a prey as Hilton. As a rule, Chumbley resembled the elephant in his slow, ponderous movement. Now, there was something almost leonine in his activity, the latent almost herculean strength he possessed being brought into play.