"He's a Headquarters gink who stays on the fence, and tries to hunt with the hounds the same time he's runnin' with the hares--and gener'ly goes round queerin' an honest officer's work. And I guess he's queered ours. So about the only thing for us to do, 's far as I can see, is for us to crawl off home and go to bed!" CHAPTER VIII THE DUMMY-CHUCKER It was unquestionably a momentous night, that night I discharged Latreille. I had felt the thing coming, for weeks. But I had apparently been afraid to face it. I had temporized and dallied along, dreading the ordeal. Twice I had even bowed to tacit blackmail, suavely disguised as mere advances of salary. Almost daily, too, I had been subjected to vague insolences which were all the more humiliating because they remained inarticulate and incontestable. And I realized that the thing had to come to an end. I saw that end when Benson reported to me that Latreille had none too quietly entertained a friend of his in my study, during my absence. I could have forgiven the loss of the cigars, and the disappearance of the _cognac_, but the foot-marks on my treasured old San Domingoan mahogany console-table and the overturning of my Ch'ien-lung lapis bottle were things which could not be overlooked. I saw red, at that, and promptly and unquaveringly sent for Latreille. And I think I rather surprised that cool-eyed scoundrel, for I had grown to know life a little better, of late. I had learned to stand less timorous before its darker sides and its rougher seams. I could show that designing chauffeur I was no longer in his power by showing that I was no longer afraid of him. And this latter I sought to demonstrate by promptly and calmly and unequivocally announcing that he was from that day and that hour discharged from my service. "You can't do it!" he said, staring at me with surprised yet none the less insolent eyes. "I have done it," I explained. "You're discharged, now. And the sooner you get out the better it will suit me." "And you're ready to take that risk?" he demanded, studying me from under his lowered brows. "Any risks I care to assume in this existence of mine," I coolly informed him, "are matters which concern me alone. Turn your keys and service-clothes and things in to Benson. And if there's one item missing, you'll pay for it." "How?" he demanded, with a sneer. "By being put where you belong," I told him. "And where's that?" "Behind bars." He laughed at this. But he stopped short as he saw me go out to the door and fling it open. Then he turned and faced me. "I'll make things interesting for you!" he announced, slowly and pregnantly, and with an ugly forward-thrust of his ugly pointed chin. It was my turn to laugh. "You _have_ made them interesting," I acknowledged. "But now they are getting monotonous." "They won't stay that way," he averred. I met his eye, without a wince. I could feel my fighting blood getting hotter and hotter.