Burling-Forster, an artillery chieftain, whose valor, years before at Quetta, had vividly been placed before the British people by Routledge, the only civilian detached with him at the time, took the place of Trollope now and stared with steady, stony insolence, an accomplishment of Englishmen only, at the man who had made him famous. He did not move to take the hand which Routledge was careless enough to offer him. However, Burling-Forster uttered a sentence which showed that he quite forgot that there were women in the room. There was not a shade of change now in the brown hue of Routledge’s face, nor in the pleasure of his smile. “Colonel, I once saw your temper working to better effect,” he said courteously.... “Feeney,” he remarked, turning to the grim visage of the old man, “perhaps you may tell me--am I out of order to inquire what this game is?” “It appears to me,” Feeney answered gloomily, “that you are out of order anywhere.” “Thank you--I didn’t know.” It was now the turn of Dartmore, the editor of the _Review_. As has been related, it had been the recent vocation of Routledge to make this newspaper important in and between wars. To be insulted by Dartmore was like being thrown from a horse into a hedge of Spanish-bayonets. “I am glad that you were crafty enough not to call at the _Review_ office to-day, though you’ve got hell’s own audacity to come here. Don’t go to the _Review_ for your cheque. I will see to it that it is brought to the Rubicon Buffet within an hour. I advise you to buy something with it to kill yourself.” A tall figure in evening wear brushed by Routledge now, rather roughly and without apology. It was Bingley, of the _Thames_. For an instant Routledge was blinded--the Hindus name it well--by the red mists of passion. He had drilled himself to bear the words, had listened coldly, curiously, for the past few moments, but the actual physical contact unleashed his rage. “I shouldn’t advise him to kill himself until he is well clear of the shores of England, Dartmore--the taint, you know!” Bingley said with a brassy smile. The face of a woman hurrying toward him through the breathless groups in the great reception hall pulled Routledge out of delirium. “Bingley,” he remarked, shutting his eyelids forcibly, as if to expel the rheum of anger, “I’ll bear in mind your suggestion.” The editor turned his back upon his prince of servants, as routine men frequently dare to do. A butler stood by Routledge with the great frieze coat. The air became electric with whisperings. The whole company was intent upon a matter, the nature of which only a handful knew. But the others discussed it in awed, hungry eagerness--in that deplorable, hungerish way of lesser folk who are enabled to forget their own limitations by the spectacle of one of the mighty fallen. Routledge swung into his outer garment, smiling strangely....