SYBIL LINFORTH'S LOYALTY A fortnight after Shere Ali had dined with Ralston in Calcutta, a telegram was handed to Linforth at Chatham.

It was Friday, and a guest-night.

The mess-room was full, and here and there amongst the scarlet and gold lace the sombre black of a civilian caught the eye.
Dinner was just over, and at the ends of the long tables the mess-waiters stood ready to draw, with a single jerk, the strips of white tablecloth from the shining mahogany.

The silver and the glasses had been removed, the word was given, and the strips of tablecloth vanished as though by some swift legerdemain.

The port was passed round, and while the glasses were being filled the telegram was handed to Linforth by his servant.
He opened it carelessly, but as he read the words his heart jumped within him.