To have Russia get it now--the indisputable documents--would enable her to start Afghanistan boiling again. The Border States and all India would be embroiled. More than all, the British troops serving in India would be lashed into mutiny by the story of what happened to the men of Colonel Hammond’s regiment--the men who knew all. Yes, Russia could build her great war upon it--the long-prophesied war--and drive her puppets against England for the possession of northern India. Routledge was filled with shuddering by these thoughts of war, and by the man before him, laughing softly, insanely, and drinking raw whiskey--another Colonel Hammond in the flesh! “Let me get this straight, Jerry,” he said lightly. “One man steals the documents which tell the whole truth about Shubar Khan, and puts the story in the hands of the Russians----” “And at what a time!” Cardinegh exclaimed passionately. “When did Abduraman die?” “Last October. He was a valuable man for the British,” Routledge added thoughtfully. “He held the Pathans and the Afridis from fighting the English, and at the same time managed to avoid angering Russia. He was the man for the Buffer State.” “His sons are not so valuable.” Cardinegh chuckled. “Abduraman died of a _stroke_, as the newspapers said. It was a stroke!... When was Cantrell, the British Agent in Kabul, murdered?” “A month later.” “When were we all called in from the field and Bhurpal forgotten?” “A month later still.” “What a God-given time it was!” the old man exclaimed. Routledge saw the need of holding Cardinegh together until he could get the whole story. “I can see clearly how one man might use these documents to start war in Afghanistan,” he capitulated; “how Russia could spread the hell all along the border, supplying powder and guns, and getting a formidable enemy launched against England, before taking the field herself. I can even see how all India, ‘seething with hatred for her white child, the British foundling’--I always liked that sentence--might arise and say, ‘This is the accepted time.’ More than that, I can see how the story of Colonel Hammond’s lost regiment might start a contagion of mutiny patches over the British army----” “Some work for one man.” “Big work, Jerry,” Routledge agreed. “I can see it all so far, but you will have to pardon me for having a little interest left in the fact, that I was practically ejected from the Armory last night.” The old man fell silent and his fears whipped him again. “Don’t murder me until I am through, son. You are supposed to be the man who gave the story to the Russian spies.” “Ah!” said Routledge. “I am supposed to be the man, and yet no one consulted me upon the matter. If I were merely _supposed_ to be the man--would I have been turned out?” “The forty who know the story--have no doubt about you.” Here a great light was thrown upon the recent activity of the White Mustache. “Why am I not arrested, Jerry?” “The Government does not dare.”