It was addressed to Captain Harry Luttrell, Yacht _The Dragonfly_, Stockholm, and it was sent from Cairo by the Adjutant-General of the Egyptian Army.
"_I can make room for you, but you must apply immediately to be transferred._" Hardiman sat down in a chair by the side of the table against the wall, with his eyes on Luttrell's face.

He was a big, softish, overfed man of forty-five, and the moment he began to relax from the upright position, his body went with a run; he collapsed rather than sat.

The little veins were beginning to show like tiny scarlet threads across his nose and on the fullness of his cheeks; his face was the colour of wine; and the pupils of his pale eyes were ringed with so pronounced an _arcus senilis_ that they commanded the attention like a disfigurement.

But the eyes were shrewd and kindly enough as they dwelt upon the troubled face of his guest.
"You have not answered this ?" he asked.
"No.

But I must send an answer to-night." "You are in doubt ?" "Yes.