"Would that be any worse than wearing this hat of ridicule which this Baron de Landon has put upon my head? No Moor or Touareg or Berber shall stand between me and the object of my just retaliation, if I confront him!"
A small bell tinkled in a corner. D'Hubert made a gesture of apology as he went towards a cabinet screened from the general office. He came back grinning.
"My Paul," he chuckled, "there will be shortly an insuperable barrier between you and your desire. In another hour you will not be the senior officer of marine at Casablanca. I learn by wireless that the Barfleur, with the admiral on board, enters the roads within the hour."
Rattier stood for an instant motionless. Then he turned and darted for the door.
Before his fingers reached the handle Aylmer's grip was on his shoulder. With a passionate gesture of repulse the commandant shook him off.
"I am not one to await admirals!" he roared. "I go to make arrangements. Within half an hour I leave the town—I. If I have to walk I will follow these Berber scoundrels, yes, if I have to crawl upon my knees!"
As the two wrestled and argued on the threshold, the door opened from the outside. The massive proportions of the sergeant towered over them in respectful amazement. He saluted and deferentially edged a way for himself towards D'Hubert.
"The general was in the act of passing, my Major," he explained. "He read your note and wrote his answer on the back in five words—he was amiable enough to inform me."
The major untwisted the little roll of soiled paper and as he inspected it a smile creased his cheek. He chuckled.
"A half troop of Goumiers!" he read. He looked at the frowning face of the commandant.