men present is Beauvayse.

Then, as he stands sullen and lowering, the man who has been writing gets
up and comes to him. Saxham recognises the keen-featured face with the
rusty-brown moustache, and the grip of the lean, hard hand that hauled a
Dop Doctor out of the Slough of Despair is familiar. The pleasant voice he
likes says something about somebody being very wet. It is Saxham, from
whose soaked garments the water is running in streams, and whose boots
squelch as he crosses the carpet that has been spread above the
floor-tarpaulin. The friendly hand pours out and offers him a sparing
measure of that rare stimulant, whisky.

"As preventive medicine. We can't have our Medical Staff men on the
sick-list."

Some such commonplace words accompany the proffered hospitality.

"I shall not suffer, thanks. You have a shell-casualty, you have 'phoned
us, but before I see your man it is imperative that I should speak to Lord
Beauvayse. Where is he?"

"He is here."

"My business with him is urgent, sir."

The man at the telephone makes a sound indicative that a message is coming
through. The Chief is beside him instantly, with the receiver at his ear.
He looks round for an instant at Saxham as he waits for the intelligence,
and the muscles of his face twitch as if under the influence of some
strong, repressed emotion, and the Doctor's practised glance notes the
unsteadiness of the uplifted hand. Then he is saying to the officer in
charge at Maxim Kopje South:

"The ammunition comes up to-night. Tell Gaylord that we are short-handed
here, and shall want him to help on night duty.... Practically as soon as
he can join us. No, no better. All for the present ... thanks! Saxham,
please come this way."

There is a sleeping-place at the end of the long, narrow, lamp-lit
perspective, curtained off from the rude bareness of the outer place.
Light shows between the curtains, and they are of plush, in hue a rich,
deep red. As that strong colour sinks into his brain, through his intent
and glittering eyes, Saxham the man has a sudden furious impulse to tear
the deep folds back, with a clash of brazen rings on iron rods, and call
to the betrayer who lurks behind them to come out and be dealt with. But
that hollow, feeble moaning sounds continuously from the other side, and
Saxham the surgeon stays his hand and follows the Colonel in. There are
two camp-beds in the small sleeping-place, and a washstand and a
folding-chair. A lam