up as
John entered, and in silence handed him the message.

"_Demon dead. Died gloriously._"

The telegram came from an Harrovian, an old Manorite at the War Office.

John sat down, stunned by the news; Warde regarded him gravely. John
met his glance and could not interpret it. Presently, Warde said
nervously--

"Why did the fellow write 'Demon' instead of 'Scaife'? I don't like
that." He looked sharply at John, who did not understand. Then he
added, "I've wired for confirmation. There may be a--mistake."

"What mistake?" said John. Warde's manner confused him, frightened
him. "What mistake, sir?"

Warde, twisting the paper, answered miserably--

"There has been an action, but not in Scaife's part of Africa.
Beauregard's Horse were engaged and suffered severely. And would any
one say 'Demon' in such a serious context?"

"Oh, my God!" said John, pale and trembling. At last he understood.
Add two letters to "Demon" and you have "Desmond." How easily such a
mistake could be made!--"Desmond," ill-written, handed to an old
Manorite to copy and despatch.

"It's Scaife--it's Scaife," John cried.

Warde said nothing, staring at the thin slip of paper as if he were
trying to wrest from it its secret.

"Everybody called him 'Demon,'" said John.

"Still, one ought to be prepared."

For many hideous minutes they sat there, silent, waiting for the second
telegram. Dumbleton brought it in, and lingered, anxiously expectant;
but Warde dismissed him with a gesture. As the door closed, Warde
stood up.

"If our fears are well founded," he said solemnly, "may God give you
strength, John Verney, to bear the blow."

Then he tore open the envelope and read the truth--

"_Henry Desmond killed in action._"

"No," said John, fiercely. "It is Scaife, Scaife!"

Warde shook his head, holding John's hand tight between his sinewy
fingers. John's face appalled him. He had known, he had guessed, the
strength of John's feeling for Desmond, but he had not known the
strength of John's hatred of Scaife. And Desmond had been taken--and
Scaife left. The irony of it tore the soul.

"Don't speak," commanded Warde.

John closed his lips with instinctive obedience. When he opened them
again his face had softened; the words fell upon the silence with a
heartrending inflection of misery.

"And now I shall never know--I shall never know."

He broke down piteously. Warde let the first passion of grief spend
i