“Publicity?” “Exactly. The truth about Afghanistan to-day is a secret guarded with men’s lives. Arbitration is afire between here and Petersburg. If India and Russia saw the British people aroused, the chances are that they would be forced to strike at once. Soldiers are being rushed secretly toward Khyber Pass. Troop-ships are embarking suddenly and without ostentation from England this moment. To make this story public--and this would be in danger by your arrest--would start the Indian sympathizers around the world. The mere name of Shubar Khan brings old England to her knees. This has been a pregnant day in the Inner Circle, my son. No, you will not be arrested.” “Why am I not murdered quietly?” “The same reason, with another. I attended to that. Every one who knows this story of Shubar Khan must be reckoned with. I told them that you must be kept alive--that I could secure your written confession. They believe that I am at it now.” Routledge was throwing the whole strength of his concentrated faculties into the eyes of the old man. Cardinegh’s face was like death. “Where did you meet the secret agents?” “At Naples. They had me on the carpet almost before I left ship.” “This is the most absorbing tale I have ever encountered, Jerry. I am to give you a written confession of how I fell in with the Russians and gave them the documents concerning Shubar Khan, which I had stolen. Why did you choose me to make this confession--because I am your best friend?” “Yes,” Cardinegh answered hoarsely; “because you are my best friend. Not another man in the world would have carried the burden for me. They would never have let me reach London.” Routledge bent forward and spoke with lowered voice: “Then it was you who fell in with the Russians----” “Yes.” Routledge couldn’t help it--the presence of the other put a poisoned look into his face for an instant. The last fifteen minutes he had endured every phase of astonishment and horror. The revelation shook the psychic roots of his being. “For the love of God, son--don’t look at me that way! Wait till I have told you all. I thought you were already in London--with Noreen. I was in Italy, and they never would have let me reach here. I never could have seen her--or Cheer Street again.” Pity came to Routledge. He looked down upon the wreck of Jerry Cardinegh. He caught up his own nerve-ends and bound them together, smiled, and placed his hand upon the old man’s knee. “How often I have found it,” he said musingly, “that a day like yesterday portends great events. I had the queerest sort of a day yesterday, Jerry. Hour after hour I sat here, neglecting things which needed doing, thinking, thinking. I have found it so before in my life--days like yesterday preceding a crisis.... Weren’t any of the other boys suspected, or any of the soldiers? Why was it that the finger of the episode pointed to you or me?”