"All right, thank you, sir. I'm sorry to disturb you; I only came to——"
"Yes, yes, I know; I sent for you. Wait a minute, will you, till I've finished this letter, I've something to say to you. Sit down; smoke if you like; there are cigarettes."
Graeme took one from the box pushed towards him, and lighting it sat back in his chair and waited till the other had finished. What on earth, he wondered, could the Adjutant-General have to say to him? Surely it didn't mean that Colonel Schofield had already submitted his application for leave home, and it had arrived at Headquarters, only to be refused? Yes, that must be it, and Quentin had now sent for him to inform him of the fact. At the thought, Graeme was seized with anger, and he braced himself for fight. He wouldn't stand it, not he; he would speak his mind, and tell this Jack-in-office, Adjutant-General though he was, that he had made up his mind ...
Suddenly he became aware that the scratching of the pen had ceased, and that Quentin was regarding him with the same unwinking stare with which he had favoured him three years before at Fort Hussein.
"Have you ever met a Colonel Bradford, Graeme," he asked abruptly, "now commanding at Gurrumbad?"
"I think I have, sir; he dined with the regiment last manoeuvres," answered Graeme, his anger giving way to surprise at the unexpectedness of the question. What was the man driving at, he wondered.
"Does he know you?" was the next and equally abrupt query.
"I don't think so, sir, by sight possibly, but that's all."
"Hum ... pity."
A pause, then Quentin went on.