“If you are writing to the other you might give him my love,” said T. X., “and make most tender enquiries after his mother. I particularly ask this.” Kara said nothing until the car was out of earshot then he lay back on the down cushions and abandoned himself to a paroxysm of rage and blasphemy. CHAPTER V Six months later T. X. Meredith was laboriously tracing an elusive line which occurred on an ordnance map of Sussex when the Chief Commissioner announced himself. Sir George described T. X. as the most wholesome corrective a public official could have, and never missed an opportunity of meeting his subordinate (as he said) for this reason. “What are you doing there?” he growled. “The lesson this morning,” said T. X. without looking up, “is maps.” Sir George passed behind his assistant and looked over his shoulder. “That is a very old map you have got there,” he said. “1876. It shows the course of a number of interesting little streams in this neighbourhood which have been lost sight of for one reason or the other by the gentleman who made the survey at a later period. I am perfectly sure that in one of these streams I shall find what I am seeking.” “You haven't given up hope, then, in regard to Lexman?” “I shall never give up hope,” said T. X., “until I am dead, and possibly not then.” “Let me see, what did he get--fifteen years!” “Fifteen years,” repeated T. X., “and a very fortunate man to escape with his life.” Sir George walked to the window and stared out on to busy Whitehall. “I am told you are quite friendly with Kara again.” T. X. made a noise which might be taken to indicate his assent to the statement. “I suppose you know that gentleman has made a very heroic attempt to get you fired,” he said. “I shouldn't wonder,” said T. X. “I made as heroic an attempt to get him hung, and one good turn deserves another. What did he do? See ministers and people?” “He did,” said Sir George. “He's a silly ass,” responded T. X. “I can understand all that”--the Chief Commissioner turned round--“but what I cannot understand is your apology to him.” “There are so many things you don't understand, Sir George,” said T. X. tartly, “that I despair of ever cataloguing them.” “You are an insolent cub,” growled his Chief. “Come to lunch.” “Where will you take me?” asked T. X. cautiously. “To my club.” “I'm sorry,” said the other, with elaborate politeness, “I have lunched once at your club. Need I say more?” He smiled, as he worked after his Chief had gone, at the recollection of Kara's profound astonishment and the gratification he strove so desperately to disguise. Kara was a vain man, immensely conscious of his good looks, conscious of his wealth. He had behaved most handsomely, for not only had he accepted the apology, but he left nothing undone to show his desire to create a good impression upon the man who had so grossly insulted him.