"D Squadron's squattin' on its hunkers in rings an' lookin' gloomy," he said, as if he were announcing some good news that had a touch of humor in it. "By the look of 'em you'd say they'd been passed over for active service and were meditatin' matrimony." "By gad, Warrington! You don't know how near that guess is to the truth!" Kirby's lips were smiling, but his voice was hard. Warrington glanced quickly at him once and then looked serious. "You mean--" "Yes," said Kirby. "Has it broken yet?" "No." "Is it goin' to break?" "Looks like it. Looks to me as if it's all been prearranged. Our crowd are sparring for time, and the Prussians are all in a hurry. Looks that way to me." "And you mean--there's a chance--even a chance of us--of Outram's Own bein' out of it? Beg your pardon, sir, but are you serious?" "Yes," said Kirby, and Warrington's jaw fell. "Any details that are not too confidential for me to know?" asked Warrington. "Tell you all about it after I've had a word with Ranjoor Singh." "Hadn't I better go and help look for him?" "Yes, if you like." So, within another certain number of split seconds, Captain Charlie Warrington rode, as the French say, belly-to-the-earth, and the fact that the monsoon chose that instant to let pour another Noah's deluge seemed to make no difference at all to his ardor or the pace to which he spurred his horse. An angry police officer grumbled that night at the club about the arrogance of all cavalrymen, but of one Warrington in particular. "Wanted to know, by the Big Blue Bull of Bashan, whether I knew when a case was serious or not! Yes, he did! Seemed to think the murder of one sowar was the only criminal case in all Delhi, and had the nerve to invite me to set every constable in what he termed my parish on the one job. What did I say? Told him to call to-morrow, of course--said I'd see. Gad! You should have heard him swear then--thought his eyes 'ud burn holes in my tunic. Went careering out of the office as if war had been declared." "Talking of war," said somebody, nursing a long drink under the swinging punkah, "do you suppose--" So the manners of India's pet cavalry were forgotten at once in the vortex of the only topic that had interest for any one in clubdom, and it was not noticed whether Warrington or his colonel, or any other officer of native cavalry looked in at the club that night. * * * * * Warrington rode into the rain at the same speed at which he had galloped to the police station, overhauled one of the mounted troopers whom he himself had sent in search of Ranjoor Singh, rated him soundly in Punjabi for loafing on the way, and galloped on with the troop-horse laboring in his wake. He reined in abreast of the second trooper, who had halted by a cross-street and was trying to appear to enjoy the deluge. "Any word?" asked Warrington.