“‘Well, my candid opinion is that he learned his game at a first-class public school,’ he replied. ‘And I am further of the opinion, from the few words I spoke to him, that one would have expected to find him here and not in the Sergeants’ Mess. What’s his story? Do you know?’ “‘I don’t,’ I shook my head. ‘Haven’t an idea. But you’ve confirmed my own impressions.’ “And there I had to leave it for some months. Periodically I talked to Trevor, deliberately tried to trap him into some admission which would give me a clue to his past, but he was as wary as a fox and as close as an oyster. I don’t know why I took the trouble—after all, it was his business entirely, but the fellow intrigued me. He was such an extraordinarily fine N.C.O., and there was never a sign of his hitting the bottle, which is the end of a good many gentlemen-rankers. Moreover, he didn’t strike me as a fellow who had come a cropper, which is the usual cause of his kind. “And then one day, when I least expected it, the problem began to solve itself. Philip Blenton rang me up in the morning after breakfast, from a house in the neighbourhood, where he was staying for a couple of two-day matches. Could I possibly spare Sergeant Trevor for the first of them? Against the I Z., who had brought down a snorting team, and Carter—the Oxford blue—had failed the local eleven at the last moment. If I couldn’t they’d have to rake in one of the gardeners, but they weren’t too strong as it was. “So I sent for Trevor, and asked him if he’d care to play. I saw his eyes gleam for a moment; then he shook his head. “‘I think not, thank you, sir,’ he said, quietly. “‘It’s not quite like you to let Captain Blenton down, Trevor,’ I remarked. ‘He’s relying on you.’ “I knew it was the right note to take with him, and I was very keen on his playing. I was going out myself that afternoon to watch, and I wanted to see him in different surroundings. We argued for a bit—I knew he was as keen as mustard in one way to play—and after a while he said he would. Then he went out of the office, and as it happened I followed him. There was an old cracked mirror in the passage outside, and as I opened the door he had just shut behind him, I had a glimpse of Sergeant Trevor examining his face in the glass. He’d got his hand so placed that it blotted out his moustache, and he seemed very intent on his reflection. Then he saw me, and for a moment or two we stared at one another in silence. Squadron-leader and troop-sergeant had gone; we were just two men, and the passage was empty. And I acted on a sudden impulse, and clapped him on the back. “‘Don’t be a fool, man,’ I cried. ‘Is there any reason why you shouldn’t be recognised?’ “‘Nothing shady, Major,’ he answered, quietly. ‘But if one starts on a certain course, it’s best to go through with it!’ “At that moment the pay-sergeant appeared, and Trevor pulled himself together, saluted smartly, and was gone.