“You are ten minutes late.” He shook his head.

“The boat was a day late, sir,” said Bones.

The third secretary shook his head again, took off his white helmet and peered into its depths with half-closed eyes, his lips moving. He seemed to be praying. Then: “This way, Mr. Tibbetts,” he said, and walked rapidly down a corridor.

Bones, who had all a military gentleman’s loathing and contempt for the Civil Service, followed at a slower pace to express his independence.

Sir Macalister was pacing up and down his large room, his hands clasped behind him, all the weight and burden of empire on his clouded brow. He shot a glance at the newcomer but did not pause in his exercise.

“Mr. Tibbetts, your Excellency,” said the third secretary, in the tone of one who had caught the visitor after a hard chase.

“Huh,” said his Excellency.

The secretary withdrew reluctantly: he would have liked to hear all that the Administrator had to say.

“So–you–are–Mr. Tibbetts!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your Excellency,” snapped Sir Macalister. “No relation to the late–er–Sir John Tibbetts?”

“Yes, sir–my father.”

“Oh!”

The Administrator was at a disadvantage: Sir John was the greatest official that had ever come to the coast.

“Indeed? Now, sir: will you tell me why–will you please tell me why, when you were policing the Chimbiri district, you executed, without judge or jury, one Talaki? You will say that you were in a perilous position. You will say that you were five hundred miles from the nearest magistrate. You will say that you have precedents. You will say that the other miscreant escaped because you were understaffed.” He stopped and glared at Bones.

“No, sir,” said Bones politely. “None of these cute little ideas occurred to me.”

“No, sir! Oh, indeed, sir! Now, sir–understand, sir! From this moment, sir!–and you may take this back to your Commissioner, sir! That no man is to die in his territories until his death warrant is signed and sealed, sir, by me, sir–the Administrator, sir! Or my authorised deputy, sir. Tell Mr. Sanders that, sir!”

Bones was not in any degree ruffled.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “And when Mr. Sanders resigns, perhaps your Excellency will tell his successor?”

“Resigns?” Sir Macalister grew purple. Sanders was a tradition at the Foreign Office. The last time he resigned, a most important administrator was recalled. He was told when he reached home that it was so much easier to find a new administrator than a substitute for the Commissioner of the River Territories.

“Do you think he will resign, Mr. Tibbetts?” ‘Lords’ was almost mild.

“Certain, sir: most unprofessional to send that kind of message by a jolly old subaltern.” Bones shook his head reproachfully and added: “I might have to resign too.”

The effect of this threat was not apparent. Bones afterwards said that Ruddy reeled. At any rate he resumed his walking.

“I’ll go down and see him myself,” he said. “It is shockingly unhealthy, but I must go. Why did you hang this fellow, sir?”

“Because, sir,” said Bones, “he killed another fellow, sir, an’ took his jolly old lady wife…”

He explained how. Sir Macalister, who was not accustomed to the raw of life, shuddered and stopped him halfway through his narrative.

“Dreadful…you’d better come to dinner and talk it over, Tibbetts–seven-thirty sharp. Don’t keep me waiting or I’ll have you cashiered. And by the way, before I forget it, there is, I understand, some trouble in the old king’s country. Ticklish business…wants tact. Tell Senders I’ll come down by the next boat and ask him to arrange a palaver with the old man. Eh? No, no, I shan’t want Sanders there. I’ll fix the boundary question–seven-thirty sharp, and if you’re a minute late, by…I’ll–I’ll have you hoofed out of the Army, I will, by gad!”

Outside in the corridor Bones met a Sandhurst crony, one Stewart Clay–a child in white who wore the gold aiguilettes of an A.D.C. After the first whoop of joy and gladness:

“He’s not a bad old devil,” said the A.D.C.