“Richard Butler!” cried O’Moy. “He has surrendered to you?” “Half-an-hour ago.” Sir Terence turned aside with a weary shrug. A little laugh that was more a sob broke from him. “Poor Una!” he muttered. “The tangle is a shocking one--lies, lies everywhere, and in the places where they were least to be expected.” Wellington’s anger flashed out. “Do you realise what awaits you as a result of all this damned insanity?” “I do, sir. That is why I place my resignation in your hands. The disregard of a general order punishable in any officer is beyond pardon in your adjutant-general.” “But that is the least of it, you fool.” “Sure, don’t I know? I assure you that I realise it all.” “And you are prepared to face it?” Wellington was almost savage in an anger proceeding from the conflict that went on within him. There was his duty as commander-in-chief, and there was his friendship for O’Moy and his memory of the past in which O’Moy’s loyalty had almost been the ruin of him. “What choice have I?” His lordship turned away, and strode the length of the room, his head bent, his lips twitching. Suddenly he stopped and faced the silent intelligence officer. “What is to be done, Grant?” “That is a matter for your lordship. But if I might venture--” “Venture and be damned,” snapped Wellington. “The signal service rendered the cause of the allies by the death of Samoval might perhaps be permitted to weigh against the offence committed by O’Moy.” “How could it?” snapped his lordship. “You don’t know, O’Moy, that upon Samoval’s body were found certain documents intended for Massena. Had they reached him, or had Samoval carried out the full intentions that dictated his quarrel with you, and no doubt sent him here depending upon his swordsmanship to kill you, all my plans for the undoing of the French would have been ruined. Ay, you may stare. That is another matter in which you have lacked discretion. You may be a fine engineer, O’Moy, but I don’t think I could have found a less judicious adjutant-general if I had raked the ranks of the army on purpose to find an idiot. Samoval was a spy--the cleverest spy that we have ever had to deal with. Only his death revealed how dangerous he was. For killing him when you did you deserve the thanks of his Majesty’s Government, as Grant suggests. But before you can receive those you will have to stand a court-martial for the manner in which you killed him, and you will probably be shot. I can’t help you. I hope you don’t expect it of me.” “The thought had not so much as occurred to me. Yet what you tell me, sir, lifts something of the load from my mind.”