For a moment he rhapsodised in silence. "Breakfast in bed, poached egg in the bed: oh! James, my boy, and she probably never even thinks of me."

He took a letter out of his pocket and held it under the light of the candle. "'Not much to do at present, but delightful weather. The hospital is nearly empty, though there's one perfect dear who is almost fit--a Major in some Highland regiment.'

"Listen to that, James. Some great raw-boned, red-kneed Scotchman, and she calls him a perfect dear!" His listener blew resignedly and again composed himself to slumber.

"'How is James behaving? I'd love to see the sweet pet again.' Sweet pet: yes--my boy--you look it. 'Do you remember how annoyed he was when I put him in your arms that afternoon at home?' Do you hear that, James?--do I remember? Monica, you adorable soul...." He relapsed into moody thought.

At what moment during that restless night the idea actually came I know not. Possibly a diabolical chuckle on the part of James Henry, who was hunting in his dreams, goaded him to desperation. But it is an undoubted fact that when Sir Derek Temple rose the next morning he had definitely determined to embark on the adventure which culminated in the tragedy of the cat, the General, and James. The latter is reputed to regard the affair as quite trifling and unworthy of the fierce glare of publicity that beat upon it. The cat, has, or rather had, different views.

Now, be it known to those who live in England that it is one thing to say in an airy manner, as Derek had said to Lady Monica, that he would come and see her when she landed in France; it is another to do it. But to a determined and unprincipled man nothing is impossible; and though it would be the height of indiscretion for me to hint even at the methods he used to attain his ends, it is a certain fact that in the afternoon of the second day following the episode of the five rodents he found himself at a certain seaport town with James Henry as the other member of the party. And having had his hair cut, and extricated his companion from a street brawl, he hired a motor and drove into the country.

Now, Derek Temple's knowledge of hospitals and their ways was not profound. He had a hazy idea that on arriving at the portals he would send in his name, and that in due course he could consume a tete-a-tete tea with Monica in her private boudoir. He rehea.r.s.ed the scene in his mind: the quiet, cutting reference to Highlanders who failed to understand the official position of nurses--the certainty that this particular one was a scoundrel: the fact that, on receiving her letter, he had at once rushed off to protect her.

And as he got to this point the car turned into the gates of a palatial hotel and stopped by the door. James Henry jumped through the open window, and his master followed him up the steps.

"Is Lady Monica Travers at home; I mean--er--is she in the hospital?" He addressed an R.A.M.C. sergeant in the entrance.

"No dawgs allowed in the 'ospital, sir." The scandalised N.C.O. glared at James Henry, who was furiously growling at a hot-air grating in the floor. "You must get 'im out at once, sir: we're being inspected to-day."

"Heel, James, heel. He'll be quite all right, Sergeant. Just find out, will you, about Lady Monica Travers?"

"Beg pardon, sir, but are you a patient?"

"Patient--of course I'm not a patient. Do I look like a patient?"

"Well, sir, there ain't no visiting allowed when the sisters is on duty."

"What? But it's preposterous. Do you mean to say I can't see her unless I'm a patient? Why, man, I've got to go back in an hour."

"Very sorry, sir--but no visiting allowed. Very strict 'ere, and as I says we're full of bra.s.s 'ats to-day."

For a moment Derek was nonplussed; this was a complication on which he had not reckoned.

"But look here, Sergeant, you know..." and even as he spoke he looked upstairs and beheld Lady Monica. Unfortunately she had not seen him, and the situation was desperate. Forcing James Henry into the arms of the outraged N.C.O., he rushed up the stairs and followed her.

"Derek!" The girl stopped in amazement. "What in the world are you doing here?"

"Monica, my dear, I've come to see you. Tell me that you don't really love that d.a.m.n Scotchman."

An adorable smile spread over her face. "You idiot! I don't love anyone.

My work fills my life."

"Rot! You said in your letter you had nothing to do at present. Monica, take me somewhere where I can make love to you."

"I shall do nothing of the sort. In the first place you aren't allowed here at all; and in the second I don't want to be made love to."

"And in the third," said Derek grimly, as the sound of a procession advancing down a corridor came from round the corner, "you're being inspected to-day, and that--if I mistake not--is the great pan-jan-drum himself."

"Oh! good Heavens. Derek, I'd forgotten. Do go, for goodness' sake.

Run--I shall be sacked."

"I shall not go. As the great man himself rounds that corner I shall kiss you with a loud trumpeting noise.'

"You brute! Oh! what shall I do?--there they are. Come in here." She grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him into a small deserted sitting-room close by.

"You darling," he remarked and promptly kissed her. "Monica, dear, you must listen----"

"Sit down, you idiot. I'm sure they saw me. You must pretend you're a patient just come in. I know I shall be sacked. The General is dreadfully particular. Put this thermometer in your mouth. Quick, give me your hand--I must take your pulse."

"I think," said a voice outside the door, "that I saw--er--a patient being brought into one of these rooms."

"Surely not, sir. These rooms are all empty." The door opened and the cavalcade paused. "Er--Lady Monica... really."

"A new patient, Colonel," she remarked. "I am just taking his temperature." Derek, his eyes partially closed, lay back in a chair, occasionally uttering a slight groan.

"The case looks most interesting." The General came and stood beside him. "Most interesting. Have you--er--diagnosed the symptoms, sister?"

His lips were twitching suspiciously.

"Not yet, General. The pulse is normal--and the temperature"--she looked at the thermometer--"is--good gracious me! have you kept it properly under your tongue?" She turned to Derek, who nodded feebly. "The temperature is only 93." She looked at the group in an awestruck manner.

"Most remarkable," murmured the General. "One feels compelled to wonder what it would have been if he'd had the right end in his mouth." Derek emitted a hollow groan. "And where do you feel it worst, my dear boy?"

continued the great man, gazing at him through his eyegla.s.s.

"Dyspepsia, sir," he whispered feebly. "Dreadful dyspepsia. I can't sleep, I--er--Good Lord!" His eyes opened, his voice rose, and with a fixed stare of horror he gazed at the door. Through it with due solemnity came James Henry holding in his mouth a furless and very dead cat. He advanced to the centre of the group--laid it at the General's feet--and having sneezed twice sat down and contemplated his handiwork: his tail thumping the floor feverishly in antic.i.p.ation of well-merited applause.

It was possibly foolish, but, as Derek explained afterwards to Monica, the situation had pa.s.sed beyond him. He arose and confronted the General, who was surveying the scene coldly, and with a courtly exclamation of "Your cat, I believe, sir," he pa.s.sed from the room.

The conclusion of this dreadful drama may be given in three short sentences.

The first was spoken by the General. "Let it be buried." And it was so.

The second was whispered by Lady Monica--later. "Darling, I had to _say_ we were engaged: it looked so peculiar." And it was even more so.

The third was snorted by James Henry. "First I'm beaten and then I'm kissed. d.a.m.n all cats!"

PART TWO

THE LAND OF TOPSY TURVY