"That was—is—so, in an ordinary way," Tony admitted, swallowing heavily again. "But you see that fearful row on the hill where the guns are might—must have set a hornet's nest buzzing over there. The chaps were likely to think we were potting at them—out of a clear sky, and—er—they might have begun potting back at us in a minute or two, in their excitement. So, to save the situation, Vandyke scooted across with only his orderly—who's his chauffeur, too—in his own car with some sort of white flag rigged up in a jiffy. I expect he'll get a lot of credit for that dash when the story—I mean the facts, are out."
"It was a brave thing to do!" cried Mrs. Dalziel, always delighted to praise any one. "He must have risked his life."
"Yes," said Tony, "no doubt of that. The Mexican bridge sentries might have fired on him in spite of the white flag. They—they did fire, I believe. But Vandyke's all right, anyhow."
"You speak as if some one wasn't." I heard myself talking, though I seemed not to have spoken the words deliberately.
"Only the orderly, poor chap. He was driving the car. I guess the sentries saw him before they saw the white flag."
"They shot him?"
"Yes, unfortunately they did." Tony's voice broke a little, and that struck me as odd; for he could not have had any personal interest, it seemed, in Major Vandyke's chauffeur-orderly.
"I hope they didn't kill the poor fellow?" purred Mrs. Dalziel.
"I don't think he's dead yet, mater, but I'm afraid he's past speaking. They got him in the lungs."
"Major Vandyke's come back, then," I said.