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JIMMY STAUNTON had spoken with his eyes open to what he was saying. He knew that his own bank balance consisted of exactly eighteen pounds; he knew that he had no possible method of raising the money in the time—save one. And he knew exactly what that one method entailed. It was a court-martial offence, with certain cashiering as the result—if he was found out.

In every military unit there are certain funds which consist—not of the public money, but of money subscribed by officers and men for various purposes. There are the profits from the canteen and the Regimental Institute; there are subscriptions for cricket, football, shooting prizes and other things of a like type. And the officer who is responsible for these funds is the second-in-command.

Now the second-in-command—Major Peterson—was on leave, and was not returning for six weeks. And during his absence Jimmy was acting for him. He was empowered to write cheques, and pay in monies to the bank. In fact he was in complete charge of the accounts, and there was no one to say him ‘Nay,’ or raise any questions till the quarterly audit, which would take place on Major Peterson’s return.

It was not the first time Jimmy had acted in this capacity, and he knew to a nicety how that audit was conducted. Every item in the regimental books was inspected, and the balance arrived at. Then from the balance in hand at the bank was subtracted any unpresented cheques, and if the two figures tallied—as they always did—the audit was over. But Jimmy had never known a detailed inspection of the pass-book: quite naturally it was deemed unnecessary. Moreover, he knew that the passbook was very near completion and that by the time Peterson returned a new one would have been started. Given three weeks he could raise the money from his father, who was at the moment in Canada. And the two unexplainable entries of a hundred and ninety pounds drawn out and paid back later would probably never be seen. If they were ... but Jimmy refused to let himself think about that. It had to be done: it was the only possible way. No one knew better than he did the ghastly risk: the chance of the old passbook being looked at—the possibility of the bank manager casually mentioning the matter to Peterson one day. But it had to be done.

And it was a perfectly calm and self-possessed young officer who presented a cheque for a hundred and ninety pounds over the counter of Barclays Bank the next morning.

“A large cheque, Mr. Staunton,” said the cashier, raising his eyebrows a little.

“It is a bit,” agreed Jimmy. “But I want the money handy for prizes. We’re having a big show at the ranges shortly.”

When he returned the money he was going to say the show hadn’t come off.

“Let’s hope you have better weather,” said the cashier. “Any fivers?”

“All in pound notes,” said Jimmy. “I should only have to change the fivers.”

Fivers as he knew had their numbers taken, and if he returned different notes it was going to look suspicious.

With the notes in his pocket he left the bank, and going up the street he entered another where he was unknown. And there he exchanged the Treasury notes for tenners. Assuredly, he reflected grimly to himself, a career of crime had its complications. And after that he returned to lunch in the mess. As far as he could see he had taken every precaution that it was humanly possible for him to take to avoid being found out, but he was far too clear thinking an individual not to realise that the risk of detection was still enormous. One casual remark from the cashier at Barclays Bank, and the whole thing was bound to come out. And then ... finish.

He sent the notes plus his own eighteen pounds with a little covering letter to Peggy that afternoon. It was a stilted effusion: somehow Jimmy felt numbed and dazed. The one dominant thought in his brain that at all costs she must be saved, was jumbled up in his mind with the almost unbelievable fact that he—the product of a line of soldiers—had done what he had. He lied to her, of course; said an aunt had sent him two hundred and fifty pounds—more power to her elbow. Said it was just their secret.... Re-wrote it all four times, in the intervals of gazing dumbly out of the window.

“Wait for an answer,” he told Wilton, when at last he’d sealed it up.

It came, and he read it over and over again.

“My dear; I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Come and ask me that question when I get back next week—Peggy.”

And that was a Thursday. On Saturday morning the telephone in his office rang, and the pay sergeant answered it.

“Adjutant’s compliments, sir, and the C.O. wishes to see you at once in the orderly-room.”

For a moment or two Staunton stared at the N.C.O. almost uncomprehendingly. Impossible, of course: Tiny Tim couldn’t have found out. And yet his mouth was so dry as he reached for his hat that he could only nod his reply.

He crossed the barrack square, entered orderly-room and saluted. And as he left the door and advanced to Tiny Tim’s desk, the Adjutant rose and left the office. And Jimmy Staunton’s mouth was drier still. That fact always meant a man was on the mat for something serious, apart from the look on Tiny Tim’s face. It was stern and set, and his eyes were expressionless.

“I have sent for you, Staunton,” he said quietly, “to ask if you have any explanation to offer with regard to a most extraordinary item in the regimental accounts.”

For a moment Jimmy’s heart stood still; then he stiffened, even more rigidly to attention. The suspense was over: he knew he’d been found out.

“Quite by chance,” went on the C.O., “I met the manager of Barclays Bank dining out last night. And he said to me in the course of conversation that he hoped we should have a successful rifle meeting. I asked him what he meant, as we had no intention of having anything of the sort. He then told me that the cashier had told him that you had drawn a cheque for a hundred and ninety pounds on Thursday morning for the purpose of prizes at this meeting, and that the reason why the cashier had mentioned it to him was on account of the largeness of the amount. I was dumbfounded naturally, and requested him to send up the pass-book this morning. I have it here, with the entry in question. And I would like your explanation.”

“I have no explanation, sir,” said Jimmy steadily.

“No explanation?” said the Colonel sternly. “You must have an explanation for drawing a cheque for a hundred and ninety pounds on the regimental funds. What have you done with the money?”

Jimmy Staunton drew a deep breath. Just for a second he wavered: career, ambition, everything he had lived for—against his promise.

Then—“I have spent it, sir.”

“My God!” muttered Tiny Tim, “I can’t believe it. You, Staunton—you, of all men. What have you spent it on?”

“Betting, sir,” said Jimmy without a falter. “I’ve owed a bookmaker for months, and he threatened to write to you if I didn’t pay up before next Monday. I would like to say also, sir, that in three weeks from now I would have returned the money.”

“Everybody who steals is always under that impression,” said the Colonel harshly. “I presume you realise what this means, Mr. Staunton.”

“Perfectly, sir,” answered Jimmy.

“It means a court-martial for you with cashiering as the inevitable result.”

For a moment Jimmy stared at the face of the man on the other side of the table, and it was grey and drawn. For a moment there came again temptation well nigh overwhelming to tell him the truth. Cashiered! God! what would his father say? The indelible disgrace of it! With blinding clearness he saw the future stretching out in front of him, a future without hope and with the shadow of the thing that had happened always hanging over him. And then quite clearly and distinctly his own words rang through his brain—“I promise that I’ll tell no one.”

Least of all her father. It was out of the question; it couldn’t be done. And then he realised that Tiny Tim was speaking again.

“If you can replace this money in three weeks, why haven’t you obtained it before to pay this bookmaker? You tell me you’ve owed him for months. You’ve let it drift, I suppose, and when after what I said to you on Wednesday night you decided that something had to be done. Thank God! my daughter refused you.”

He wasn’t looking at Jimmy, so he didn’t see the look of amazement that showed for a moment on his face.

“Listen, Staunton: I’m failing in my duty, I know. But I can’t have your father’s son cashiered. You will go back to your quarters and send in your papers at once. You will then go on leave, until your resignation is approved. I will replace this money at once, telling the manager at the bank that you withdrew it under a misapprehension. You can send me a cheque for it—when you’re able. And I need hardly add that you are to make no attempt in the future to communicate with my daughter. That will do.”

Without a word Jimmy Staunton saluted, and turned blindly towards the door. It was the end, and he blundered past the Adjutant who was standing about outside without even seeing him.

“What the devil has happened?” muttered that worthy officer to himself, as he watched Jimmy’s progress across the square. “He can’t have been drinking.”

And his amazement was not lessened when he entered the orderly-room, and had a momentary glimpse of Tiny Tim sitting hunched up in his chair with his face covered with his hands.