“Tell one of the troopers to wait,” said the tall man, and they both passed into the dressing-room together as the landau rolled away. Kim saw their heads bent over Mahbub Ali’s message, and heard the voices—one low and deferential, the other sharp and decisive.
“It isn’t a question of weeks. It is a question of days—hours almost,” said the elder. “I’d been expecting it for some time, but this”—he tapped Mahbub Ali’s paper—“clinches it. Grogan’s dining here to-night, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir, and Macklin too.”
“Very good. I’ll speak to them myself. The matter will be referred to the Council, of course, but this is a case where one is justified in assuming that we take action at once. Warn the Pined and Peshawar brigades. It will disorganize all the summer reliefs, but we can’t help that. This comes of not smashing them thoroughly the first time. Eight thousand should be enough.”
“What about artillery, sir?”
“I must consult Macklin.”
“Then it means war?”
“No. Punishment. When a man is bound by the action of his predecessor—”
“But C25 may have lied.”
“He bears out the other’s information. Practically, they showed their hand six months back. But Devenish would have it there was a chance of peace. Of course they used it to make themselves stronger. Send off those telegrams at once—the new code, not the old—mine and Wharton’s. I don’t think we need keep the ladies waiting any longer. We can settle the rest over the cigars. I thought it was coming. It’s punishment—not war.”