thus, as it seemed to him, neither aid nor impediment. But in that he was
wrong. She had been the mainspring of Linforth's energy, and so much was
evident in the letter which Luffe read slowly to the end.

"Yes, Linforth's dead," said he, with a momentary discouragement. "There
are many whom we could more easily have spared. Of course the thing will
go on. That's certain," he said, nodding his head. A cold satisfaction
shone in his eyes. "But Linforth was part of the Thing."

He passed the second letter to Dewes, who read it; and for a while both
men remained thoughtful and, as it seemed, unaware for the moment of the
Diwan's presence. There was this difference, however. Luffe was thinking
of "the Thing"; Dewes was pondering on the grim little tragedy which
these letters revealed, and thanking Heaven in all simplicity of heart
that there was no woman waiting in fear because of him and trembling at
sight of each telegraph boy she met upon the road.

The grim little tragedy was not altogether uncommon upon the Indian
frontier, but it gained vividness from the brevity of the letters which
related it. The first one, that in the woman's hand, written from a house
under the Downs of Sussex, told of the birth of a boy in words at once
sacred and simple. They were written for the eyes of one man, and Major
Dewes had a feeling that his own, however respectfully, violated their
sanctity. The second letter was an unfinished one written by the husband
to the wife from his tent amongst the rabble of Abdulla Mahommed.
Linforth clearly understood that this was the last letter he would write.
"I am sitting writing this by the light of a candle. The tent door is
open. In front of me I can see the great snow-mountains. All the ugliness
of the lower shale slopes is hidden. By such a moonlight, my dear, may
you always look back upon my memory. For it is over, Sybil. They are