Sanders at the same time was in receipt of other news which alternately pleased him and filled him with panic. The mail had come in by fast launch and had brought Captain Hamilton of the Houssas a very bulky letter written in a feminine hand. He had broken the glad news to Commissioner Sanders, but that gentleman was not certain in his mind whether the startling intelligence conveyed by the letter was good or bad. "I'm sure the country will suit her," he said, "this part of the country at any rate--but what will Bones say?" "Bones!" repeated Captain Hamilton scornfully. "What the dickens does it matter what Bones says?" Nevertheless, he went to the sea-end of the verandah, and his roar rivalled the thunder of the surf. "Bones!" There was no answer and for an excellent reason. Sanders came out of the bungalow, his helmet on the back of his head, a cheroot tilted dizzily. "Where is he?" he asked. Hamilton turned. "I asked him to--at least I didn't ask him, he volunteered--to peg out a trench line." "Expect an invasion?" asked Sanders. Hamilton grinned. "Bones does," he said. "He's full of the idea, and offered to give me tips on the way a trench should be dug--he's feeling rotten about things ... you know what I mean. His regiment was at Mons." Sanders nodded. "I understand," he said quietly. "And you ... you're a jolly good soldier, Hamilton--how do you feel about it all?" Hamilton shrugged his shoulders. "They would have taken me for the Cameroons, but somebody had to stay," he said quietly. "After all, it is one's business to ... to do one's job in the station of life to which it has pleased God to call him. This is my work ... here." Sanders laid his hand on the other's shoulder. "That's the game as it should be played," he said, and his blue eyes were as soft and as tender as a woman's. "There is no war here--we are the keepers of the King's peace, Hamilton." "It's rotten...." "I know--I feel that way myself. We're out of it--the glory of it--the chance of it--the tragedy of it. And there are others. Think of the men in India eating their hearts out ... praying for the order that will carry them from the comfort of their lives to the misery and the death--and the splendour, I grant you--of war." He sighed and looked wistfully to the blue sea. Hamilton beckoned a Houssa corporal who was crossing the garden of the Residency. "Ho, Mustaf," he said, in his queer coast Arabic, "where shall I look for my lord Tibbetti?" The corporal turned and pointed to the woods which begin at the back of the Residency and carry without a break for three hundred miles. "Lord, he went there carrying many strange things--also there went with him Ali Abid, his servant." Hamilton reached through an open window of the bungalow and fished out his helmet with his walking-stick. "We'll find Bones," he said grimly; "he's been gone three hours and he's had time to re-plan Verdun."