Two shots rang out together, and the colonel sprawled back over the bed—dead.
Propped against the wall was Jack o' Judgment, and the hand that gripped his breast dripped red. They heard the shots outside and Stafford King was the first to enter the room. One glance at the colonel was sufficient, and then he turned to the figure who had slipped to the floor and was sitting with his back propped against the wall.
"Good God!" said Stafford. "Jack o' Judgment!"
"Poor old Jack!" said the mocking voice.
Stafford's arm was about his shoulder, and he laid the head gently back upon his bent knee. He lifted the mask gently and the light of the oil lamp which swung from the ceiling fell upon the white face.
"Sir Stanley Belcom! Sir Stanley!" he softly whispered.
Sir Stanley turned his head and opened his eyes. The old look of good-humour shone.
"Poor old Jack o' Judgment!" he mimicked. "This is going to be a first-class scandal, Stafford. For the sake of the service you ought to hush it up."
"But nobody need know, sir," said Stafford. "You can explain to the Home Secretary——"