Mrs. MacFarlane clasped her hands in an ecstatic and calculated gesture.
"O-o-h! I do hope he comes on again."
"Oh, he'll come on again."
The conversation flagged. Mrs. MacFarlane, for the twentieth time, cast furtively anxious eyes 'round the crowded room, with its row on row of laughing, eager men and girls, of mingling black and white and scarlet—scarlet—scarlet, the colour which made her tingle from head to foot. This was the C.O.'s concert—a special concert to welcome the new Superintendent, now with them seven days. Why was he not here?
As a matter of fact, he was there! Had she arrived earlier—the desire to make a sensational entrance plus natural laziness had made her late—she would have seen Hector in the forefront. Unexpectedly called away, he had now returned and was at that moment chatting with Inspector Forshaw, his adjutant, in a corner, on the very subject of Humphries, the entertainer.
"That man who just recited, Forshaw," Hector enquired. "Who is he?"
"That, sir?" Forshaw, a short, good-humoured Englishman with intensely bright eyes and a round, ruddy face, beamed and smiled. People always smiled at mention of Humphries. "That's a new man to this division. Name's Humphries. Fact is, sir, he's not much good—not exactly a bad hat, but wild and unreliable. Gentleman gone wrong—you know the sort, sir. The usual story, I expect—younger son—felt his oats—a girl."
The C.O. smiled.
"I'm sorry. He looks whole-wool. I wonder if we can't snatch the brand from the burning?"
Between Forshaw and Hector had sprung up immense sympathy. Forshaw was not an old hand in the Force and his service had not brought him into contact with Hector—they had met for the first time a week ago. But he was a man of insight, who knew Hector by repute and had with him much in common.