's Irregular Horse; in the five days' action about Spion Kop
he behaved with conspicuous gallantry. Scaife, having obtained his
billet of Galloper, was with a General under Lord Methuen.

On the last Monday but one in the term, John was entering the Manor just
before lock-up, when a Sixth Form boy from another house passed him,
running.

"Have you heard about poor Scaife?" he called out.

"No--what?"

"Warde will tell you; he knows." The boy ran on, not wishing to be late.

John ran, too, with his heart thumping against his side. He felt
certain, from the expression upon the boy's face, that Scaife was dead.
And John recalled with intense bitterness and humiliation moments in
past years when he had wished that Scaife would die. Charles Desmond had
told him only three weeks before that his Harry hoped to join the smart
cavalry regiment in which a commission had been promised to Scaife. At
that moment John was sensible of an inordinate desire for anything that
might come between this wish and its fulfilment. And now, Scaife might
be lying dead.

He found Warde in his study staring at a telegram. He looked 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 minut