were fired! Why was he not waving his képi and shouting for joy? Why did he not rush down to the gates and throw them open?'
'Wounded and lying down,' suggested St. André.
'He was not wounded, my friend,' said I. 'He was killed. That bayonet, and nothing else, had done his business.'
'Asleep,' suggested the Lieutenant, 'absolutely worn out. Sleeping like the dead--and thus his enemy, the trumpeter, found him, and drove the bayonet through his heart as he slept. He was going to blow the sleeper's brains out, when he remembered that the shot would be heard and would have to be explained. Therefore he used the bayonet, drove it through the man, and then, and not till then, he realised that the bayonet would betray him. It would leap to the eye, instantly, that murder had been committed--and not by one of the garrison. So he fled.'
'And the revolver, with one chamber fired?' I asked.
'Oh--fired during the battle, at some daring Arab who rode round the fort, reconnoitring, and came suddenly into view.'
'And the paper in the left hand?'
'I do not know.'
'And who fired the two welcoming shots?'
'I do not know.'
'And how did the trumpeter vanish across the desert--as conspicuous as a negro's head on a pillow--before the eyes of my Company?'
'I do not know.'
'Nor do I,' I said.
And then St. André sat up suddenly.
'Mon Commandant,' said he, 'the trumpeter did not escape, of course. He murdered the sous-officier and then hid himself. It was he who removed the two bodies when he again found himself alone in the fort. He may have had some idea of removing the bayonet and turning the stab into a bullet-wound. He then meant to return to the Company with some tale of cock and bull. But remembering that you had already seen the body, and might have noticed the bayonet, he determined to set fire to the fort, burn all evidence, and rejoin in the confusion caused by the fire.
He could swear that he had been knocked on the head from behind, and only recovered consciousness in time to escape from the flames kindled by whoever it was who clubbed him. This is all feasible--and if improbable it is no more improbable than the actual facts of the case, is it?'
'Quite so, mon Lieutenant,' I agreed. 'And why did he not rejoin in the confusion, with his tale of cock and bull?'
'Well--here's a theory. Suppose the sous-officier did shoot at him with the revolver and wounded him so severely that by the time he had completed his little job of arson he was too weak to walk. He fainted from loss of blood and perished miserably in the flames that he himself had kindled. Truly a splendid example of poetic justice.'
'Magnificent,' I agreed. 'The Greek Irony, in effect. Hoist by his own petard. Victim of the mocking Fates, and so forth. The only flaw in the beautiful theory is that we should have heard the shot--just as we should have heard a rifle-shot had the trumpeter used his rifle for the murder. In that brooding heavy silence a revolver fired on that open roof would have sounded like a seventy-five.'
'True,' agreed St. André, a little crestfallen. 'The man was mad then. He did everything that was done, and then committed suicide or was burnt alive.'
'Ah, my friend,' said I, 'you have come to the madman theory, eh? So had I. It is the only one. But now I will tell you something. The trumpeter did not do all this. He did not murder the sous-officier, for that unfortunate had been dead for hours, and the trumpeter had not been in the place ten minutes!'
'And that's that,' said St. André. 'Let's try again.' And he tried again--very ingeniously too. But he could put forward no theory that he himself did not at once ridicule.
We were both, of course, weary to death and more in need of twenty-four hours' sleep than twenty-four conundrums--but I do not know that I have done much better since.
And as I rode back to Tokotu, with my record go of fever, my head opened with a tearing wrench and closed with a shattering bang, at every stride of my camel, to the tune of, 'Who killed the Commandant, and why, why, why?' till I found I was saying it aloud.
I am saying it still, George." . . .
§9.
Passengers by the Appam, from Lagos to Birkenhead, were interested in two friends who sat side by side in Madeira chairs, or walked the promenade deck in close and constant company.
The one, a tall, bronzed, lean Englishman, taciturn, forbidding, and grim, who never used two words where one would suffice; his cold grey eye looking through, or over, those who surrounded him; his iron-grey hair and moustache, his iron-firm chin and mouth, suggesting the iron that had entered into his soul and made him the hard, cold, bitter person that he was, lonely, aloof, and self-sufficing. (Perhaps Lady Brandon of Brandon Abbas, alone of women, knew the real man and what he might have been; and perhaps half a dozen men liked him as greatly as all men respected him.)
The other, a shorter, stouter, more genial person, socially inclined, a fine type of French soldier, suave, courtly, and polished, ruddy of face and brown of eye and hair, and vastly improved by the removal, before Madeira, of a three years' desert beard. He was obviously much attached to the Englishman. . . .
It appeared these two had something on their minds, for day by day, and night by night, save for brief intervals for eating, sleeping, and playing bridge, they interminably discussed, or rather the Frenchman interminably discussed, and the Englishman intently listened, interjecting monosyllabic replies.
When the Englishman contributed to the one-sided dialogue, a listener would have noted that he spoke most often of a bareheaded man and of a paper, speculating as to the identity of the former and the authorship of the latter.
The Frenchman, on the other hand, talked more of a murder, a disappearance, and a fire. . . .
"How long is it since you heard from Lady Brandon, Jolly?" enquired George Lawrence, one glorious and invigorating morning, as the Appam ploughed her steady way across a blue and smiling Bay of Biscay.
"Oh, years and years," was the reply. "I was at Brandon Abbas for a week of my leave before last. That would be six or seven years ago. I haven't written a line since the letter of thanks after the visit. . . . Do you correspond with her at all regularly?"
"Er--no. I shouldn't call it regular correspondence exactly," answered George Lawrence. "Are you going to Brandon Abbas this leave?" he continued, with a simulated yawn.
"Well--I feel I ought to go, mon vieux, and take that incredible document, but it doesn't fit in with my plans at all. I could post it to her, of course, but it would mean a devil of a long letter of explanation, and I loathe letter-writing 'fatigues' more than anything."
"I'll take it if you like," said Lawrence. "I shall be near Brandon Abbas next week. And knowing Michael Geste, I confess I am curious."
Major de Beaujolais was conscious of the fact that "curious" was not exactly the word he would have used. His self-repressed, taciturn, and unemotional friend had been stirred to the depths of his soul, and had given an exhibition of interest and emotion such as he had never displayed before in all de Beaujolais' experience of him.
What
