"You have the Tirah medal, I see," he said. "Were you at Dargai?" The question achieved the immediate effect counted on. "I was, an' all, sir," and the ex-soldier squared his shoulders. "Though no Scottie, I was in the Gordon Highlanders. Were you there, sir?" "I--er--yes, but as a non-combatant. I was in the Politicals--quite a youngster in those days, and I was fool enough to envy you that rush across the plateau." "It was warm work while it lasted, sir." "There have been few things to equal it in warfare. What time do you pass through the village on Monday?" "Shortly after eleven, sir." "If you see a light, come in. If not, look me up next Thursday. If I'm fishing, I'll leave word with Mrs. Jackson that you're to have a refresher should you be that way inclined." "Thank you, sir. My name's Leadbitter, if ever you should want me." "And a jolly good name, too, for a man who fought against the Afridis. By the way, can you tell me what time the post leaves here?" "A rural postman calls at Thompson's shop for letters about half-past four, sir." A cigar changed hands, and P. C. Leadbitter strode off, holding his head high. It was a red-letter day. He had met one who knew what the storming of the Dargai Pass meant. Even the memories of Stephen Garth pendant from a hook beneath the china shelf faded into the mists of a country policeman's humdrum routine. He was halfway to Bellerby when he remembered that he had not done the one thing he meant doing--he had not asked Mr. Armathwaite's intentions with regard to the garden. Begonia Smith had retired to a village lying between Bellerby and Nuttonby. Though too old to take a new situation, he would jump at the chance of setting his beloved Grange garden in order again, and, of course, he was just the man for the job. Leadbitter believed in doing a good turn when opportunity offered. After tea, he went in search of Smith of the order Begoniaceae. To save half a mile of a three miles' tramp by road, he passed through the estate of Sir Berkeley Hutton, and met that redoubtable baronet himself strolling forth to see how the partridges were coming on. "Ha!" cried Hutton, knowing that his land was not in the policeman's district, "has that rascally herd of mine been gettin' full again?" "No, Sir Berkeley, Jim's keepin' steady these days," was the answer. "There's a new tenant at the Grange, Elmdale; he'll be wantin' a gardener, I'm thinkin', so I'm going to put Begonia Smith on his track." "A new tenant! You don't tell me. What's his name?" "A Mr. Robert Armathwaite, Sir Berkeley. A very nice gentleman, too. Been in India, in the Politicals, he said. I didn't quite know what he meant----"