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"With a noise between a cough and a snarl the leopard collapsed."
Bruce Falkner of the K. A. R, surveyed a group engaged in the sundown occupation of talk with drinks at the end of the club veranda. There was no mistaking the broad back of the district police commissioner—known to his intimates as "the Policeman"—flanked, as usual, by the rotund figure of "Fatty" Gordon, and the thin one of the airman. A trio of unfailing gayety, but tonight there was something repellent about the East Coast and all its works, and of course they would talk of nothing else. Falkner was about to pass on, but already they had seen him; or, to be precise, Gordon had.
"Hullo, Bruce," he called; "you're the very man we want."
Falkner hesitated. To anyone else he would have made an excuse, but he liked Gordon, who in spite of his bulk was a good sportsman and very efficient at his job, which job was "cloves." Besides, Gordon had worked with G. P.
"Come on," insisted the others; "we won't talk shop."
Falkner smiled unbelievingly, but moved toward them. "If that's a promise," he said, "I'll bet drinks all round that it will be broken within the next ten minutes."
"As a matter of fact, we were right
