“If it weren’t for the fact,” Major Thomson told him sternly, “that you have worn his Majesty’s uniform, that you are a soldier, and that the horror of it would bring pain to every man who has shared with you that privilege, I have quite enough evidence here to bring your career to a disgraceful end. I give you your chance, not for your own sake but for the honour of the Army. What do you say?” Granet picked up his hat. “I’ll think it over,” he muttered. He walked out of the room without any attempt at farewell, pushed his way along the corridors, down the steps and out into Whitehall. His face was distorted by a new expression. A sudden hatred of Thomson had blazed up in him. He was at bay, driven there by a relentless enemy, the man who had tracked him down, as he honestly believed, to some extent through jealousy. The thoughts framed themselves quickly in his mind. With unseeing eyes he walked across Trafalgar Square and made his way to his club in Pall Mall. Here he wrote a few lines to Isabel Worth, regretting that he was called out of town on military business for forty-eight hours. Afterwards he took a taxi and called at his rooms, walked restlessly up and down while Jarvis threw a few clothes into a bag, changed his own apparel for a rough tweed suit, and drove to Paddington. A few minutes later he took his place in the Cornish Express. CHAPTER XXXII Granet emerged from the Tregarten Hotel at St. Mary’s on the following morning, about half-past eight, and strolled down the narrow strip of lawn which bordered the village street. A couple of boatmen advanced at once to meet him. Granet greeted them cheerily. “Yes, I want a boat,” he admitted. “I’d like to do a bit of sailing. A friend of mine was here and had a chap named Rowsell--Job Rowsell. Either of you answer to that name, by chance?” The elder of the two shook his head. “My name’s Matthew Nichols,” he announced, “and this is my brother-in-law, Joe Lethbridge. We’ve both of us got stout sailing craft and all the recommendations a man need have. As for Job Rowsell, well, he ain’t here--not just at this moment, so to speak.” Granet considered the matter briefly. “Well,” he decided, “it seems to me I must talk to this chap Rowsell before I do anything. I’m under a sort of promise.” The two boatmen looked at one another. The one who had addressed him first turned a little away. “Just as you like, sir,” he announced. “No doubt Rowsell will be up this way towards afternoon.” “Afternoon? But I want to go out at once,” Granet protested. Matthew Nichols removed his pipe from his mouth and spat upon the ground thoughtfully. “I doubt whether you’ll get Job Rowsell to shift before mid-day. I’m none so sure he’ll go out at all with this nor-wester blowing.” “What’s the matter with him?” Granet asked. “Is he lazy?” The man who as yet had scarcely spoken, swung round on his heel.