"I'll tell you what she will do," said Nick. "She will go and marry that wild Irish brother of yours."

Max continued to look at him. His mouth was no longer cynical, but cocked at a humorous angle. "I say, what a clever little chap you are!" he said. "Whatever made you think of that?"

Nick grinned in spite of himself. Disagree as he might with Max Wyndham, yet was he always in some subtle fashion in sympathy with him.

"I suppose she might do worse," he admitted after a moment. "He's a well-behaved youngster as a general rule."

"Given his own way, quite irreproachable," said Max "He's not very rich, but he's no slacker. If he doesn't break his neck at polo, he'll get on."

"Oh, he's brilliant enough," said Nick. "I suppose he can be trusted to look after her. He's full young."

"He'll grow," said Max.

A brief silence fell between them. Max continued to smoke imperturbably. There was not the faintest sign of disappointment in his bearing. He looked merely ruminative.

Nick was thoughtful also. He sat and watched his man fasten his gaiters with those flickering eyes of his that never seemed to concentrate upon one point and yet missed nothing.

"What are you going to do about Hunt-Goring?" he asked suddenly.

"Do about him?" Max sounded supremely contemptuous. He raised one eyebrow in supercilious interrogation.

"Well, he dealt this hand," said Nick.

"With Mrs. Musgrave's kind assistance," supplemented Max.

Nick made a grimace. "Who told you that?"

"No one." Max blew a cloud of smoke upwards. "You're not the only person with brains, Nick," he observed, with sardonic humour. "But look here! Your friend Mrs. Musgrave is not to be meddled with in this matter. You leave her alone and Hunt-Goring too! He's killing himself by inches with opium, so he won't interfere with anyone for long. And she will prove a useful friend to Noel if allowed to take her own way."

"You really mean to take this lying down?" said Nick.

"It's the easiest course," said Max.

"So far as you are concerned?" Nick abruptly turned in his chair; but his scrutiny was of the briefest. He did not seem to look at Max at all; nor did he apparently expect an answer to his query, for he went on almost immediately. "It's damnable luck for both of you. Old man, are you sure it's all right?"

There was no subtlety in the question. Nick had long since abandoned subtlety in his dealings with Max Wyndham, a fact which indicated that he held him in very high esteem.

Max's response expressed appreciation of the fact. He took his hand from his pocket and carelessly stretched it out. "I am absolutely sure," he said. "Make your mind easy on that point!"

Their hand-grip was silent and brief. It ended the discussion by mutual consent.

At once Max changed the subject. "Is that chap your khit or your valet or what?"

"He is all three combined," said Nick. "Why? Think I work him too hard?"

The Indian showed his teeth in a splendid smile, but said nothing.

"No, but where's the other fellow?" said Max.

"What other fellow?" Nick thrust his one arm with vigour into his riding-coat.

"The chap I saw here the other night—an old chap. I came along the verandah to tell you there was someone sneaking in the compound, and he shut the window in my face. I presumed he was head-nurse or bearer, or whatever you are pleased to call them in these parts."

"Oh, that fellow!" said Nick. "Quite a venerable old chap, you mean? Rather scraggy—not over-clean?"

"That's the man," said Max.

Nick laughed. "Great Scott! You didn't seriously, think he was my bearer, did you? No, he's an old moonstone-seller who comes to see me occasionally. He's not so disreputable as he looks. I find him handy in the matter of bazaar politics, with which I consider it useful to keep in touch."

Max received the information with a nod. His green eyes were watching Nick's lithe movements with thoughtful intentness.

"How long is this job going to last?" he asked abruptly.

"Heaven knows," was Nick's airy response.

Max was silent a moment; then: "You will send her away if it gets too hot?" he said.

Nick took up his riding-switch. "It's a tricky climate," he observed, "but I am keeping an eye on the weather. I don't anticipate anything of the nature of a heat-wave at present."

Max grunted. "Are you sure your barometer is a trustworthy one?"

Nick smiled. "I have every reason to believe so." He turned and clapped a kindly hand on Max's shoulder. "All right, old chap. Don't be anxious! I'll take care of her," he said.

Max looked at him. "You had better take care of yourself too," he said.

"Trust me!" laughed Nick.

There came a knock at the door, to which Kasur responded. It was Olga's ayah. A few whispered words passed between them, then the khitmutgar softly closed it and approached Nick.

"Miss sahib is tired this morning, and cannot ride with the sahibs. She asks that you will go to her, sahib, before you leave."

Nick glanced at Max. "You had better come too."

But Max shook his head. "No. I'll be on the verandah if she wants me, but I don't think she will."

Nick went to the door in silence; but ere he reached it Max spoke again.

"Nick!"

"Well?" Nick paused as if reluctant.

Very deliberately Max followed him. They stood face to face. "You will remember what I have said," Max said, with slow emphasis.

"I'm not very likely to forget it," said Nick.

"And you will abstain from interference in this matter?" Max's voice was emotionless, but it had a certain quality of compulsion notwithstanding.

Nick's eyes darted over him. His whole frame stiffened slightly. "If you think I am going to bind myself hand and foot by a promise, you're mistaken," he said.

"I am only asking you to let matters take their course," said Max, unmoved.

"Circumstances may make that impossible," said Nick.

"They may. In that case, you are free to act as you think fit. But I don't think they will—and—damn it, Nick, it isn't much to ask. It's for her sake."

A tinge of feeling suddenly underran his speech. He flushed slowly and deeply; but he stood his ground.

As for Nick, he turned again to the door with his switch tucked under his arm. "All right," he said. "I accept the amendment."

He was gone with the words, almost as though he feared he had already yielded too far. Probably to no other man would he have yielded a single inch.

The interview had ended in a fashion extremely distasteful to him, yet he entered Olga's presence cheerily, with no sign of discontent.

"Hullo, my chicken! Not riding this morning? Haven't you slept?"

He sat down on the bed with Olga's arms very tightly round his neck, and prepared himself to make the best of a very bad business.

The night before he had soothed her in the midst of her distress with all a mother's tenderness, but by daylight he discarded the maternal role and resumed his masculine limitations.

"Come!" he said coaxingly to the fair head pillowed against his shoulder. "You're going to be a sensible kiddie now? You're going to forget all yesterday's nonsense? Max won't say any more if you don't. You've just got to kiss and be friends."

Olga little dreamed that thus cheerily he made his last stand for a hope which he knew to be forlorn.

She raised her head and looked at him with eyes that shone with the brilliance which follows the shedding of many tears. "It's no good ever thinking of that, Nick," she said, speaking quickly and nervously. "I've been awake all night, thinking—thinking. But there's no way out. I can't marry him. I can't even see him again. And, Nick,—I want you, please, to give him back his ring."

"My dear, you're not in earnest!" said Nick.

"Yes, yes, I am, dear. And I can't argue about it. My head whirls so. Oh, Nick, why didn't you tell me when I asked you to fill in the gap? It's such a mistaken kindness—if you only knew it—to keep back the truth—whatever it may be."

Nick groaned melancholy acquiescence. "But can't you forgive him, sweetheart? Most women can forgive anything. And you never used to be vindictive."

"I'm not vindictive," she made swift reply. "It isn't that I want to punish him. Oh, don't you understand? He may have acted up to his lights. And even if—if he had been anything but a doctor, I think it would have been a little different. But he—he knew so exactly what he was doing. And oh, Nick, I couldn't possibly marry a man who had done—that. I should never forget it. It would prey on me so, just as if—as if—I had been a party to it!" A violent shiver went through her. She clung closer to him. The horror had frozen in her eyes to a wide and glassy terror.

"Easy, easy!" said Nick gently. "We won't get hysterical. But isn't it a pity to do anything in a hurry? You won't feel so badly in a week or a fortnight. Don't do anything final yet! Put him off for a bit. He'll understand."

But Olga would not listen to this suggestion. "I must be free, Nick!" she said feverishly. "I can't be bound to him any longer. Oh, Nick, do help me to get free!"

"My dear child, you are free," Nick assured her. "But take my advice; don't shake him off completely. Give him just a chance, poor chap! Wait six months before you quite make up your mind to have done with him. You'll be sure to want him back if you don't."

But still Olga would not listen. "Oh, Nick, please stop!" she implored him. "I've been through it all a hundred times already, and indeed I know my own mind. If it were to drag on over six months, I don't think I could possibly bear it. No, no! It must be final now. Nick—dear, don't you understand?"

He nodded. "Yes, I do understand, Olga mia; but I think you are making a big mistake. The horror of the thing has blinded you temporarily. You are incapable of forming a clear judgment at present. By and by you will begin to see better. That's why I want you to wait."

"But I can't wait," she said. "It—it is like a dreadful wound, Nick. I want to bind it up quick—quick, before it gets any worse,—to hide it,—to try and forget it's there. I can't—I daren't—keep it open. I think it would kill me."

There was actual agony in her voice, and Nick saw that he had made his last stand in vain. Yet not instantly did he abandon it. Once more he thrust past her defences, though she sought so desperately to keep him out.

"It's not for us to judge each other, is it?" he said. "Be merciful, Olga! Don't you think there may have been—extenuating circumstances?"

She looked at him with quivering lips, and dumbly shook her head.

"Listen!" he said. "When Muriel and I were flying from Wara, I killed a man with my hands under her eyes. It was a ghastly business. I did it to save her life and my own. But—like you—she didn't look at the motive—only at the deed. And in consequence I became a thing abhorrent in her sight. She didn't get over it for a long time. But she forgave me at last. Can't you be equally generous? Or don't you love him well enough?"

Olga's hands clasped one another very tightly. She answered him under her breath. "I expect that's it, Nick, I don't love him any more at all. It has killed my love."

"Then you never loved him," said Nick with conviction.

She made no attempt to contradict him. Only her strained white face seemed to implore him to torture her no further. He saw it, and his heart smote him.

"I hate to hurt you, my chicken," he said. "But, dear, you're making such a hideous muddle of your life. I hate that even worse."

She flung her arms about his neck; she pressed her lips to his yellow face. "Darling Nick, never mind about me, never mind!" she whispered. "I am doing simply what I must do. I can scarcely think or feel yet. Only I know that I must get free. It isn't that I'm hard. It's just that I have no choice. Your case was different. You had to do it. But this—" her words sank, became scarcely audible—"Nick, could anything extenuate—this?"

"God knows," said Nick. He paused a moment, then added: "I sometimes think, if the whole truth were known, there would be an extenuating circumstance for every mortal offence under the sun."

She did not argue the point. She seemed beyond argument. "Very likely," she said. "But really I have no choice. You see, we were such friends—such friends. And then she loved him, while he—he had nothing but a professional interest for her, till he found her case to be hopeless, and then he lost even that. That's what made it so horrible—so impossible. If he had loved her—even a little—I could have understood. But as it was—Oh, Nick, don't you see?"

Yes, he did see. It was useless to reason with her. She was like a captive bird beating wild wings for freedom and wholly unable to gauge its awful desolation when won.

For the second time he had to own himself beaten. For the second time he withdrew his forces from the field.

"Well, dear, I'm sorry," was all he said, but it conveyed much.

When he quitted her presence a little later he carried with him the ring that Max had given her and a brief and piteous message to her lover that he would not try to see her again.

Max received both in grim silence, and within half an hour of so doing he had gone.



CHAPTER XVIII

ONE MAN'S LOSS

"Oh, damn!" said Noel.

He had made the remark several times before that morning, but he made it with special emphasis on this occasion in response to the news that his brother was waiting to see him.

Hot and cross from the parade-ground, he rolled off his horse and turned towards his quarters. The animal looked after him with a faint whinny of hurt surprise, and sharply Noel flung round again.

The saice grinned, but was instantly quelled to sobriety by his master's scowl. The horse whinnied again, and tucked a confiding nose under the young officer's arm.

"All right, old man! Here you are!" said Noel.

He fished out a lump of sugar and stuffed it between the sensitive lips that nibbled at his sleeve, kissed the white star between the soft brown eyes, whispered an endearing word into the cocked ear, slapped the glossy neck, and finally departed.

His face resumed its scowl as he entered the room where Max sprawled in a bamboo chair with his feet on another and the petted terrier of the establishment seated alertly on his chest. Max smiled at sight of it and stretched forth a lazy hand.

"Excuse my rising! I daren't incur this creature's displeasure."

Noel took the creature by the neck and removed it. Max's hand remained outstretched, but that he ignored.

"What have you come for?" he demanded gruffly.

"I should have said, 'What can I do for you?'" observed Max to the ceiling. "If you are thinking of having a drink, perhaps you will allow me to join you."

Noel went to the door and grumpily yelled an order. After which he jingled back, unbuckled his sword, and flung it noisily on the table.

Max turned his head very deliberately and regarded him.

His scrutiny was a prolonged one, and Noel finally waxed impatient under it. "Well, what are you staring at me for?" he enquired aggressively.

With a sudden movement Max removed his feet from the second chair and sat up. "Sit down there!" he said.

The words fell curt and sharp, a distinct order which Noel obeyed almost before he knew what he was doing. He dropped into the chair and sat directly facing his brother, a kind of surly respect struggling with the evident hostility of his expression.

His dog, feeling neglected, sprang on to his knees and licked his sullen face.

Max uttered a short laugh that was not unfriendly. "Oh, stop being a silly ass, Noel!" he said. "What on earth do you want to quarrel with me for? It's the most unprofitable game under the sun."

Noel sat stiffly upright, holding the dog at arm's length. "It's no fault of mine," he said.

His eyes were obstinately lowered in a mule-like refusal to meet his brother's straight regard. He looked absurdly like a schoolboy brought up for punishment.

Max considerately stifled a second laugh. "All right, it's mine," he said. "And I've come to apologize. Understand? I've come to make unconditional restitution of my ill-gotten gains. I'm just off to Bombay, to shake the dust of this accursed country off my feet, and to leave you in undisputed possession of the spoil. How's that appeal to you, you sulky young hound?"

Noel's eyes shot upwards at the epithet, though the supercilious good-humour of its utterance made it somehow impossible to raise any furious protest.

The entrance of his servant with drinks helped very materially to save his dignity. He pulled the table to him without rising and began to pour them out.

"Lemon?" he asked briefly.

"No, thanks. I'll have a plain soda. And if you've no objection we will thresh this matter out at once as I have to be off in ten minutes. I suppose you took in what I said just now?"

Noel held out a glass to him, his brown hand not quite steady. "May as well be explicit," he said gruffly.

"Quite so. Then my engagement to Olga Ratcliffe is at an end. Is that plain enough for you?"

Again the boy's eyes glanced upwards, meeting the imperturbable green eyes opposite for the fraction of a second. "Really?" he said.

"Yes, really." Max took a slow gulp from his glass and set it down. "Pleased?" he enquired.

Noel did not answer. His own drink remained untouched at his elbow. "Whose doing is it?" he enquired.

"Hers."

"What! Doesn't she care for you after all?" There was a sudden quiver in the question that belied the studied calm of the speaker.

Max took up his glass and drank again. "She can't stand me at any price," he said.

"Then what have you been doing?" There was no attempt to disguise the fierceness of the query. Noel started forward in his chair with hands clenched, and his dog slid to the ground.

"Take it easy!" said Max. "I'm not going to let you into that secret. It wouldn't be good for your morals. Besides, there's no time to go into that now. All I want to say to you is that there's a clear road in front of you and the odds are all in your favour. Go straight and I believe you'll win!"

Noel leaned nearer. His face was a curious blend of eagerness and resentment. "Do you mean—you've found out—that she'd sooner have me after all?" he blurted out.

Max looked at him, and a queer, half-pitying smile curved his grim mouth. "Yes, I suppose it amounts to that," he said, after a moment.

"Oh, I say!" said Noel.

He got up abruptly, and walked to the end of the room. Coming back, he gave a sharp gasp as of one rising from deep water, and the next moment very suddenly he laughed.

"I say," he said again, speaking jerkily, "is it the sun—or what? I feel as if—you'd hit me between the eyes."

Max nodded towards the table. "Have your drink, boy, and pull yourself together! You haven't won her yet, remember. You've got some uphill work before you still."

Noel stopped at the table, and raised his glass. His hand shook palpably, and the smile on Max's face became almost one of tenderness. He watched him in silence as he drank, then lifted his own glass.

"Here's to your success!" he said.

Noel's eyes came down to him. They had the rapt look of a man who sees a vision. "Oh, man," he suddenly exclaimed, "you don't know how I worship her!"

And then abruptly he realized what he had said and to whom, and flushed darkly, averting his look.

Max got to his feet, and faced him across the table. "You've got to worship her always," he said, and in his voice there throbbed some remote echo as of an imprisoned passion deep in his hidden soul. "She'll need the utmost you can offer."

Noel looked back at him again, and the shamed flush died away. He leaned impulsively forward, suddenly, boyishly remorseful for his churlishness.

"Max! Max, old boy! I'm an infernal brute!" he declared. "I was actually forgetting that you—that you——"

"You're quite welcome to forget that," interposed Max grimly. He moved round the table, and clapped a friendly hand on the boy's shoulder. "I shall make it my business to forget it myself," he said. "But look here, don't be headlong! She isn't quite ready for you yet. I speak as a friend; go slow!"

Noel looked at him, and again the hot blood rose to his forehead. He gripped the hand on his shoulder, and held it fast. "I say, Max," he said, an odd sort of deference in his tone, "she doesn't know—does she—what a much better chap you are than I?"

The corner of Max's mouth went up. "Don't talk bosh!" he said.

"I'm not," persisted Noel. "You're doing what I hadn't the spunk to do. I think she ought to know that."

Max's smile passed from amusement to cynicism. "Do you seriously think a woman loves a man for his good points?" he said.

"No; but you've no right to put her off with an inferior article," persisted Noel.

"My good chap, I! I tell you it was her own choice." Max almost laughed.

"But you care for her?" Noel's dark eyes became suddenly intent and shrewd, and the boyishness passed from his face. "See here, Max, I won't take any sacrifices," he said. "I may be a selfish brute, but I'm not quite such a swine as that. You care for her."

"Which fact is beside the point," said Max. His fingers suddenly answered Noel's grip with the strength of a restraining force. "If there is any sacrifice anywhere," he said, "it's not offered to you, so make your mind easy on that head. As I said before, she won't have me at any price. If she would, I shouldn't be here now. You see," again his mouth twisted, "I'm not so ultra-generous myself. But I don't see why we should both be losers, especially as you had half won her before I came along. So go ahead and good luck to you!"

He disengaged his hand and lightly slapped Noel's shoulder as a preliminary to taking his departure. But Noel, with a swift return to boyhood, caught him by the arms. "I don't know what to say to you, old chap," he said, quick feeling in the words. "You've made me feel like a murderer."

"My dear chap, what rot!"

"No, it's not rot! I've hated you like the devil. I'm beastly ashamed—beastly sorry. I'll do anything to atone—anything under the sun. Give me something to do for you, Max, old boy! I can't stand myself if you go like this."

He spoke impulsively enough, but there was more than mere impulse in his speech. Hot-headed repentance it might be, but it was the real thing.

Max stood still, faintly smiling. "My dear lad, there's nothing you can do for me that you won't do twice as well for yourself," he said. "I'm glad you care for her, and I'm not sorry you hated me for getting in your way. You might let me know when it's time to congratulate. That's all I can think of at the present moment—except, yes, one thing!"

"What?" said Noel.

Max's face hardened somewhat. "That fellow Hunt-Goring," he said. "He's the chap I told you of. Keep clear of him!"

Noel stiffened. "I should like to kill him," he said.

"Yes, but you can't. He's more than a match for you. He once had some hold over Olga—something very slight. I never bothered to find out what. But she has broken away and he is an enemy in consequence. Watch out for him, but don't fall foul of him! He won't worry you for long. He is taking opium enough to kill an ox every day of his life."

"Is he though? Well, no one will weep for him."

"Unless it's Mrs. Musgrave," observed Max drily.

"She doesn't like the bounder," declared Noel with conviction. "Look here; sit down again! I've seen nothing of you yet."

"No, I can't stop, thanks. I've said good-bye to everyone else, and time is up. Don't go and get smashed up at polo! If she doesn't want you now, she will very soon. Bear that in mind!"

Noel's dark eyes shone. "The only risks I'm likely to take would be for her safety. I wish to Heaven Ratcliffe could be made to see the danger they are in."

Max smiled a little. "I've been talking to him. We touched on that point. He knows—rather more on the subject than we do."

"But he makes light of it," Noel protested. "The place is infested with budmashes and he rather encourages them than otherwise. I myself kicked an old blackguard of a moonstone-seller—or so he described himself—off his premises only the other night."

Max broke into a laugh. "Did you though?"

"Yes. What is there to laugh at? Wouldn't you have done the same? And when I told Nick the day after, he described the old beggar as a friend of his."

Max was still laughing. "What a devil of a fellow you are! I've seen the old gentleman myself. I rather think he is a friend. How did he take the kicking?"

"Oh, I don't know. He cursed a bit and went. What's the joke, I say?"

Noel's voice was imperious. He was always somewhat impatient of matters beyond his comprehension. But Max turned the subject off.

"You're such a peppery chap—always wanting to fight someone. Well, I must be gone. You'll remember not to fight Hunt-Goring?"

"No. I shan't fight the brute unless he interferes." Noel followed him to the door and stood a moment. "I say, Max," he suddenly said, "was this affair Hunt-Goring's doing?"

"What affair?" Max spoke as one bored with the subject.

But Noel persisted. "Was it thanks to Hunt-Goring that this split with Olga came about?"

Max faced about. There was a very peculiar smile in his green eyes. "Well," he said very deliberately, "I don't say Hunt-Goring's influence has been exactly a genial one. But that fact in itself would not have much difference. The main reason is the one I have given you. If you are not satisfied with that—then you will never be satisfied with anything—and you won't deserve to be." He held out his hand. "Good-bye, lad! And again—good luck!"

Noel wrung the hand. They looked each other in the eyes, and Noel spoke impulsively as his habit was, but with genuine feeling. "Good-bye, old chap! I hope you'll get to the tip-top of the tree and stay there." He added, seeing Max's mouth go down, "But I know very well there's a bigger thing than success in the world, and if I can ever help you to it—by God, old boy, I will!"

He said it hurriedly, expecting it to be received with irony. But there was no trace of cynicism left in Max's face as he gave him a final grip, and turned away with the one word: "Thanks!"

When he had gone, Noel returned to the room with sober gait, and paused in the middle of it to pick up his sword.

"I wonder if he cares much," he murmured half aloud.

He stood by the table with eyes absently fixed, going over in his mind the conversation that had just passed, recalling the leisurely, supercilious tones, the semi-ironical kindness with which his brother had revealed the situation. Why had he troubled himself to do so? For a space Noel wondered.

And then very suddenly the words, "You've got to worship her always," flashed through his mind. Those words were the key to everything. He realized that fully. And again he was conscious of shame. Yes, Max did care. That was beyond all questioning. He cared enough to do what he—Noel—had wholly failed to do. His love was great enough to efface itself, a form of love—the rarest and the highest—of which he himself was as yet incapable. He could stand between the girl and death without a second's hesitation; but he could not live and sacrifice his happiness to hers.

Again the hot blood mounted to his forehead and slowly sank again. And in those few moments Noel Wyndham stepped into manhood and faced his soul anew. If she loved him, he would marry her and give her all he had; withholding nothing. She should not be a loser because she had loved him better than Max.

He would give her a love as strong and as worthy. He would make her happiness his aim and his goal, his watch-word and his prize. No sacrifice should ever be too great for her. He would offer all he had.

No; never should she come to repent her preference—to regret the love she had refused. She had chosen him—the lesser before the greater; and she should not find him wanting. She should not be disappointed in him. Never, never now should his love fail her!

Impulsive as always, he lifted his sword and kissed the hilt with reverence. "So help me, God!" he swore.



CHAPTER XIX

A FIGHT WITHOUT A FINISH

It was not the same Olga who went back into the busy little Anglo-Indian community at Sharapura after the breaking of her engagement, though it was only those intimate with her who marked the change. To the rest of the world she was as she had ever been, quiet and gentle, perhaps a little colourless, possibly in the eyes of some even insignificant, —"too reserved to be interesting," according to Colonel Bradlaw who liked a woman to have plenty of vivacity and mirth in her composition.

To those who knew her best—to Nick, to Daisy, and to Noel—she was changed, though it was a change of which she herself was scarcely aware. Her re-awakened spontaneity had gone again. She asked sympathy of none. Even to Nick she made no confidences. She had become wholly woman, and she had learned as it were to stand alone. She preferred her solitude.

Of Noel she seemed a little shy at first, until by frank good-fellowship he overcame this. Noel's courtship was apparently at a standstill. He made no open attempt to further his cause with her, though every day he sought her out with cheery friendliness, never overstepping the mark, never giving her the smallest occasion for embarrassment. And thus every day her confidence in him grew. She came to rely upon him in a fashion that she scarcely realized, depending upon his consideration and unfailing chivalry more than she knew. She had never liked him better than she liked him then, in the first desperate bitterness of her trouble. He asked so little of her, was so readily pleased with her mere friendship, and though at the back of her mind she knew that this was only his pleasant method of marking time she was none the less grateful to him for his patience. He helped her through her dark hours without seeming in the least aware that she needed help. He demanded rather than offered sympathy, and in giving it she found herself oddly soothed. She was glad that Noel wanted her, glad that he regarded her co-operation as quite indispensable to his schemes. He occupied her thoughts at a time when private reflection was torture. The misery was there perpetually at her heart, but he gave her no time to dwell upon it. He carried her along with him with an impetus which she had no desire to resist.

Nick watched his tactics from afar with unwilling admiration, wryly admitting to himself that they were precisely the tactics he would have pursued. He saw that the fulfilment of his prediction was merely a matter of time, and prepared himself to yield to the inevitable with as good a grace as he could muster. He was in fact more in sympathy with Noel than with Olga just then. The boy was undoubtedly developing under this new influence. The spoilt side of his nature was giving place to a new manliness that was infinitely more attractive, and Nick found it impossible not to accept him with approval.

Sir Reginald Bassett's visit was to take place early in February, and great were the preparations in progress for his entertainment. Daisy Musgrave found herself swept into the vortex of Noel's energies, and she on her part did her best to interest her guest therein. It was a futile effort on her part. Hunt-Goring only laughed at her and paid her lazy compliments. Why he stayed on was a problem that she was wholly at a loss to solve. Quite privately she had begun to wish very much that he would go. She was heartily tired of being for ever on her guard, and she never dared to be otherwise with him. Not that she found it really difficult to keep him at a distance. He was too indolent for that. When she withdrew herself, he never troubled to pursue. His attentions were never ardent. But he never failed to take advantage of the smallest lapse on her part. She could never be at her ease with him.

Will Musgrave was inclined to smile at his wife's difficulties. Perhaps he was not wholly sorry that the follies of her youth should thus come home to her. He did not like Hunt-Goring much, but the man never gave offence.

"I suppose he'll go when he's tired of us," said Will philosophically.

"And meantime neither Olga nor Noel will come near the place with him in it," sighed Daisy. "I don't believe he will ever go."

He laughed at that and pinched her cheek. "We shall though, little wife. That honeymoon of ours comes nearer every day."

She smiled an eager, girlish smile. "Dear old Will!" she murmured softly.

It was on that same evening that Noel broke his rule and raced in to give Daisy some important information with regard to his schemes for what he termed "the Bassett week."

He was full of excitement and declared himself unable to remain for a single moment more than his business demanded.

"I'm going to dine with Nick," he told her. "In fact, I'm due there now."

"I never see anything of Nick nowadays," said Daisy.

"No; nor do I. He's at the Palace, morning, noon, and night. Can't see the attraction myself. But no doubt he thinks he's doing something great. By the way, you're coming round to old Badgers' to-morrow, I suppose? We are going to hold a meeting of the committee. Olga will be there of course."

"How is Olga?" asked Daisy.

"Oh, all right. Why don't you go round and see her?" Noel asked the question with some curiosity. He had begun to wonder lately if there could have been a disagreement between them.

Daisy smiled with a touch of wistfulness. She had scarcely seen Olga since the breaking of her engagement. "I seem to have so little time nowadays. The last time I went, she was busy too."

"Oh, she's sure to be busy till Bassett week," laughed Noel. "I'm seeing to that. It's good for her, you know."

"Yes, I know," said Daisy. She added in a lower tone, for Hunt-Goring was smoking on the verandah outside the window, "I am glad you are taking care of her, Noel. She needs that."

Noel coloured a little. "I do what I can. So does Nick. But I wish you would go and see her. She wants a pal of her own sex."

"I am not so sure of that," said Daisy. "Ah, here's Peggy! I thought you wouldn't escape without seeing her."

Peggy's entrance was of the nature of a whirlwind. It completely diverted the thoughts of both. She was scantily clad in a bath-towel which she held tightly gripped with both hands about her small person. Her feet left little wet dabs on the floor as she pattered in.

"Oh, Noel!" she cried. "You horrid, horrid Noel! I've been callin' you for ever so long. And I was in my bath. I thought you'd like to see me in my bath."

"Peggy!" exclaimed her mother, scandalized.

Peggy's ayah, also scandalized, hovered in the doorway.

Peggy, herself, from the safe shelter of Noel's arms, smiled securely upon both.

"You mustn't tickle me," she said to her protector, "or I shall come undone. Why hasn't you been to take me for another ride, Noel?"

"Sweetheart—" he began with compunction.

But Peggy interrupted very decidedly. "No, you needn't make excuses. And I'm not goin' to be your sweetheart any more—ever—not till you take me for another ride."

"Oh, don't be cruel!" besought Noel. "I've been so shockingly busy lately. It wasn't that I forgot you, Peggy. I couldn't do that if I tried. So give me a kiss, little sweetheart, and let's be friends! I vow I'll tickle you if you won't."

Peggy, however, was nothing daunted by this threat. She kept her face rigidly turned over his shoulder. "When will you take me for another ride?" she demanded imperiously.

"Peggy," her mother broke in again, "I can't have you behaving like this, dear. It isn't decent. Go back to ayah at once!"

Peggy peeped mischievously over Noel's shoulder. "If I get down again, I shall come all undone," she said.

"By Jove, what a calamity!" said Noel. "Haven't you got a pin or something to hold the thing together?"

She tightened her arms about his neck. "You carry me back!" she whispered ingratiatingly. "An' I'll give you three booful kisses!"

Noel succumbed at once. "Can't resist that!" he remarked to Daisy. "I'll take her back and slap her for you, shall I?"

"I wish you would," said Daisy.

"He daren't!" declared Peggy.

"Ho! Daren't he?" laughed Noel. "That's the rashest thing you ever said in your life. Come along, you scaramouch, and we'll see about that!"

He bore her away, with her draperies slipping from her, followed by the ayah whose open horror was surveyed by Peggy with eyes of shining amusement. A little later her shrill squeals announced the fact that Noel was carrying out his threat after a fashion which she found highly enjoyable, and Noel subsequently emerged in a somewhat heated and tumbled condition and bade Daisy a hasty farewell.

"I've chastised the imp, but she's quite unregenerate. Glad I'm not her mother. I've sworn a solemn oath to take her out on the Chimpanzee to-morrow. I haven't time, but that's a detail. I'll work it somehow, if you don't mind having her ready by ten. I'll race round after parade."

"I ought not to let her go," Daisy protested.

He laughed at that. "Yes, yes, you must. I've promised. Good-bye! Ten o'clock then!"

He shook her hand and departed, singing as he went.

Hunt-Goring from the verandah watched him all-unperceived.

"The whelp seems pleased with himself," he observed to Daisy, with a sneering smile. "I presume that Fortune—in the form of Miss Olga Ratcliffe—favours the brave."

"He's very handsome, isn't he?" said Daisy, smiling back not without a touch of malice. "Who could help favouring such an Adonis?"

"Not you, I'm sure," said Hunt-Goring, "or the charming Peggy either. But I'm a little sorry for the red-haired doctor, you know. I feel in a measure responsible for that tragedy."

"The responsibility was mine," said Daisy gravely.

He turned his lazy eyes upon her. "Ah, to be sure! You wanted an excuse to procure that young man his conge, I believe. I hope you realize that you are in my debt for just so much as the excuse was worth."

Daisy made a quick movement of exasperation. "Do you never give women credit for being sincere?" she said.

"Only when they are angry," said Hunt-Goring, taking out his cigarette-case. "Now join me, won't you? Sincerity is such a heating quality. I shouldn't cultivate it if I were you."

But Daisy declined somewhat curtly. It was quite evident that her patience was wearing very thin.

Hunt-Goring did not press her. He smiled and subsided with obvious indifference. Perhaps he deemed it wiser not to try her too far, or perhaps he lacked the energy to pursue the matter.

He had taken to spending most of his time on the verandah, smoking his endless cigarettes and dreamily watching the world go by. He seemed almost to have forgotten that he was a guest, and, her exasperation notwithstanding, Daisy could not bring herself to remind him of the fact. For the man was changed. Day after day she realized it more and more clearly. Day after day it seemed to her that he dropped a little deeper into his sea of lethargy. His interest flagged so quickly where once it had been keen. He grew daily older while she watched. And a curious pity for him kept her from actively disliking him, although his power to attract her was wholly gone. She found herself bearing with him simply because he cared so little.

It was quite otherwise with Noel, who was frankly disgusted to find himself confronted with him on the following morning when, true to his promise, he made his appearance with Peggy's mount. Hunt-Goring was just preparing to establish himself on the verandah when Noel came striding along it in search of his small playmate. They so nearly collided in fact that it was impossible for either to overlook the other's presence.

Noel drew back sharply with his quick scowl. They had not met since the evening on which he had so furiously challenged him to battle on Olga's behalf. For Olga's sake, and perhaps a little in deference to Max's warning, he had refrained from following up the challenge, but he was more than ready to do so even yet; and his attitude said as much as he stood aside in glowering silence for the other man to pass.

Hunt-Goring however was plainly in a genial mood. He paused to bestow his smiling scrutiny upon the young officer. "Let me see! Surely we have met before?"

"We have," said Noel bluntly.

"I fear the occasion has slipped my memory," said Hunt-Goring.

A wiser man would have passed on. But Noel had not yet attained to years of discretion. He stood his ground and explained.

"We met at dinner here. Captain and Miss Ratcliffe were here too—and my brother."

"Oh, ah! I remember now. Quite an amusing evening, was it not?" Hunt-Goring laughed gently. "You were rather vexed with me for chaffing her about her engagement. I have always thought a little chaff was legitimate on such occasions."

"When it isn't objectionable," said Noel gruffly.

Hunt-Goring laughed again. "Do you know why the engagement was broken off?"

Noel drew himself up sharply. "That, sir, is neither your affair nor mine."

Hunt-Goring took out his cigarette-case. "Well, it was mine in a way," he observed complacently. "I pulled the strings, you know."

"Ah!" It was an exclamation of anger rather than of surprise. The blood mounted in a great wave to Noel's forehead. He looked suddenly dangerous. "I guessed it was your doing," he said, in a furious undertone.

Hunt-Goring continued to smile. "He wasn't a very suitable parti for her, my dear fellow. There was a certain episode in his past that wouldn't bear too close an investigation. Very possibly you have not been let into that secret. Your brother was not over-anxious to have it noised abroad."

Noel's hands were clenched. He seemed to be restraining himself from a violent outburst with immense difficulty.

"My brother," he said with emphasis, "is the gentleman of our family. He has never yet done anything that couldn't have been proclaimed from the house-tops."

Hunt-Goring uttered his sneering laugh. "What touching loyalty! My dear fellow, your brother is the biggest blackguard of you all, if you only knew it."

"You lie!" Violently came the words; they were as the sudden bursting of the storm. Something electric seemed suddenly to have entered into Noel. He became as it were galvanized by fury.

But still Hunt-Goring laughed. "Oh, not on this occasion, I assure you. I have too little at stake. I wonder why you imagined the engagement was broken off. I suppose your brother gave you a reason of sorts."

Noel's eyes shone red. "He gave me to understand that you had had a hand in it. I guessed it in fact. I knew what an infernal blackguard you were."

"Order! Order!" smiled Hunt-Goring. "After all, my share in the matter was a very small one. Most men have a past, you know. When you have lived a little longer, you will recognize that. So he didn't tell you why he had been thrown over? Left you to make your own inferences, I suppose? Or perhaps she made the flattering suggestion that she had bestowed her affections upon—someone more captivating? I fancy she is wisely determined to secure as good a bargain as possible—for which one can scarcely blame her. And a man with so lively a past as your brother's would scarcely be a safe partner for one who values peace and prosperity."

"How dare you make these vile insinuations in my hearing?" burst forth Noel. "Do you think I'm made of sawdust? Tell me what you mean, or else retract every single word you've said!"

Hunt-Goring held up a cigarette between his fingers and looked at it. The fury of Noel's attitude scarcely seemed to reach his notice. He leaned against the balustrade of the verandah, still faintly smiling.

"I would tell you the whole story with pleasure," he said, "only I am not quite sure that it would be good for you to know."

"Oh, damn all that!" broke in Noel, goaded to exasperation by his obvious indifference. "If you want to save your skin, you'd better speak out at once!"

"To save my skin!" Hunt-Goring's eyes left their contemplation of the cigarette and travelled to his face. They held a sneer that was well-nigh intolerable, and yet which somehow restrained Noel for the moment. "What a very headlong young man you are!" pursued Hunt-Goring, in his soft voice. "I've done nothing to you. I haven't the smallest desire to quarrel with you. Nor have I given you any occasion for offence. It was Mrs. Musgrave—not I—who imparted the regrettable tale of your brother's shortcomings to his fiancee. In some fashion she conceived it to be her duty to do so."

"You meant her to do it!" flashed back Noel.

"Ah! that is another story," smiled Hunt-Goring. "We are not discussing motives or intentions. I think. But she will tell you—if you care to ask her—that I advised her strongly against the course she elected to pursue."

"You would!" said Noel bitterly. "Well, get on! Let's hear this precious story. I've no doubt it's a damned lie from beginning to end, but if it's going the round I'd better know it."

"It may be a lie," said Hunt-Goring diplomatically. "But it was not concocted by me. I should conclude, however, from subsequent events that some portion of it bears at least some sort of resemblance to the truth." He stopped to light his cigarette while Noel looked on fuming. "The story is a very ordinary one, but might well prove somewhat damning to a doctor's career. It concerned a young lady with whom your brother was—somewhat intimate."

"Did you know her?" thrust in Noel.

Hunt-Goring looked at the end of his cigarette with a thoughtful smile. "Yes, I knew her rather well. I was not, however, prepared to lend my name to cloak a scandal—even to oblige your brother who had transferred his attentions to Miss Olga, so he had to take his own measures." He looked up with a glitter of malice in his eyes. "The girl died," he said, "rather suddenly. That's all the story."

It was received in a dead silence that lasted for the breathless passage of a dozen seconds. Then: "You—skunk!" said Noel.

He did not raise his voice to say it, but there was that in his tone that was more emphatic than violence. It warned Hunt-Goring of danger as surely as the growl of a tiger. His lazy complacence suddenly gave place to alertness. He straightened himself up. But even then he had not the sense to refrain from his abominable laugh.

"I've noticed," he said, "that present-day puppies are greater at snarling than fighting. I told you this story because you asked for it. Now I'll tell you one you didn't ask for. Max Wyndham transferred his attentions to Olga Ratcliffe, not because he cared for her, but because he wanted to put a spoke in my wheel. Little Olga and I were very thick at one time. You didn't know that, I daresay?"

"I don't believe it!" said Noel, breathing heavily.

Hunt-Goring inhaled a deep breath of smoke and blew it forth again in gentle puffs. "Ah! She never told you that? She was always a secretive young woman. Yes, we had some very jolly times together on the sly, till one day the doctor-fellow caught us kissing under the apple-trees. Then of course she was afraid he'd split, so it was all up." He smiled insolently into Noel's blazing eyes. "I flatter myself that she missed those stolen kisses," he said. "I must go round one of these days—when the dragon is out of ear-shot—and make up for it."

That loosed the devil in Noel at last. He took a swift step forward. His right hand gripped his riding-whip.

"If you ever go near her again," he said, "I'll break every bone in your body! You liar—you damned blackguard—you cur!"

Full into Hunt-Goring's face he hurled his furious words. He was more angry in that moment than he had ever been in his life. The force of his anger carried him along as a twig borne on a racing current. Till that instant he had forgotten that he carried his riding-whip. The sudden remembrance of it flashed like a streak of lightning through his brain.

Before he knew what he was doing, almost as if a will swifter than his own were at work, he had sprung upon Hunt-Goring and struck him a swinging blow across the shoulders.

Only that one blow, however! For Hunt-Goring was not an easy man to thrash. Ten years before, he had been the strongest man in his regiment, and he was powerful still. Before Noel could strike again, he was locked in an embrace that threatened to crush him to a pulp.

In awful silence they strained and fought together, and in a second or two it came to Noel through the silence that he had met his match. The Irish blood in him leaped exultant to the fray. He laughed a breathless laugh, and braced his muscles to a fierce resistance. He had been spoiling for a fight with this man for a long time.

But it was impossible to do anything scientific in that constrictor-like hold, and as they swayed and strove he began to realize that unless he could break it, it would very speedily break him. Hunt-Goring's face, purple and devilish, with lips drawn back and teeth clenched upon his cigarette, glared into his own. There was something unspeakably horrible about the eyes. They turned upwards, showing the whites all shot with blood.

"The man's a maniac!" was the thought that ran through Noel's brain.

His heart had begun to pump with painful hammering strokes. Not much of a fight this! Rather a grim struggle for life against a power he could not break. He braced himself again to burst that deadly grip. In his ears there arose a great surging. He felt his own eyes begin to start. By Heaven! Was he going to be squeezed to death ignominiously on the strength of that single blow? He gathered himself together for one mighty effort—the utmost of which he was capable—to force those iron arms asunder.

For about six seconds they stood the strain, holding him like a vice; then very suddenly they parted—so suddenly that Noel almost staggered as he drew his first great gasp of relief. Hunt-Goring reeled—almost fell—back against the wall of the bungalow. The sweat was streaming down his forehead. His face was livid. His eyes, sinister and awful, were turned up like the eyes of a dead man. He was chewing at his cigarette with a ceaseless working of the jaws indescribably horrible to watch.

Noel realized on the instant that the struggle was over, with small satisfaction to either side. He stood breathing deeply, all the mad blood in him racing at fever speed through his veins, burning to follow up the attack but conscious that he could not do so. For the man who leaned there facing him was old—a bitter fact which neither had realized until that moment—too old to fight, too old to thrash.

Noel swung round and turned his back upon him, utterly disgusted with the situation. He picked up his riding-whip with a savage gesture and stared at it with fierce regret. It was a serviceable weapon. He could have done good work with it—on a younger man.

Hunt-Goring made a sudden movement, and he wheeled back. The livid look had gone from the man's face. He stood upright, and spat the cigarette from his lips. His eyes had drooped again, showing only a malicious glint between the lids. Yet there was something about him even then that made Noel aware that he was very near the end of his strength.

He was on the verge of speaking when there came the sudden rush of Peggy's eager feet, and she darted out upon the verandah, and raced to Noel with a squeal of delight.

Noel caught her in his arms. He had never been more pleased to see her. He did not look at Hunt-Goring again, and the words on Hunt-Goring's lips remained unspoken.

"Let's go! Let's go!" cried Peggy.

And Noel turned as if the atmosphere had suddenly become poisonous, and bore her swiftly away.

A few seconds later, Daisy, running out to see the start, came upon Hunt-Goring upright and motionless upon the verandah, and was somewhat surprised by the rigidity of his attitude. He relaxed almost at once, however, and sat down in his usual corner.

"I had no idea Noel was here," she said. "Has he been waiting long?"

"Not long," said Hunt-Goring. "I have been entertaining him."

"Isn't he a nice boy?" said Daisy impetuously. "Look at him in the saddle—so splendidly young and free!"

Hunt-Goring was silent a moment. Then, as he took out his cigarette-case, he remarked: "He is so altogether charming, Mrs. Musgrave, that I can't help thinking that he must be one of those fortunate people 'whom the gods love.'"

"But what a horrid thing to say!" protested Daisy. "I'm sure Noel won't die young. He is so full of vitality. He couldn't!"

Hunt-Goring smiled upon his cigarettes. "I wonder," he said slowly, and chose one with the words. "I—wonder!"



CHAPTER XX

THE POWER OF THE ENEMY

It so chanced that Noel did not find himself in any intimate conversation with Olga again until the great week arrived, and General Sir Reginald Bassett came upon the scene with much military pomp and ceremony.

Olga avoided all talk of a confidential nature with him with so obvious a reluctance that he could not force it upon her in the brief spaces of time which he had at his disposal when they met. They had become close friends, but the feeling that this friendship depended mainly upon his forbearance never left Noel, and he could not fail to see that she shrank from the bare mention of Max's name.

He bided his time, therefore, since there was no urgent need to broach the subject forthwith and he was still by no means sure of his ground. He would have discussed the matter with Nick, but Nick was never to be found. He came and went with astonishing rapidity, bewildering even Olga by the suddenness of his moves. Vaguely she heard of unrest in the city, but definite information she had none. Nick eluded all enquiries; but it seemed to her that the yellow face grew more wrinkled every day, and the shrewd eyes took on a vigilant, sleepless look that troubled her much in secret. The thought of him kept her from brooding overmuch upon her own trouble. She did not want to brood. If her own nights were sleepless, she took a book and resolutely read. She would not yield an inch to the ceaseless, weary ache of her heart, and very sternly she denied herself the relief of tears. Too much of her life had been wasted already, in the pursuit of what was not. She would not waste still more of it in bitter, fruitless mourning over that which was.

Perhaps it was the bravest stand she had ever made, and what it cost her not even Nick might guess. Certainly he had less time to bestow upon her than ever before. They met at meals, and very often that was all. But Olga, with her curious, new reserve, was not needing his companionship just then. Her attitude towards her beloved hero had subtly changed. Beloved he was still and would ever be, but he no longer dwelt apart from all other men on the special little pedestal on which her worship had placed him. He was no longer the demi-god of her childish adoration. Olga had grown up, and was shedding her illusions one by one. Nick was a man and she was a woman. Therefore it followed as a natural sequence that though she was fully capable of understanding him, she herself was—and must ever remain—a being beyond his comprehension. Not superior to him; Olga never aspired to be that. But with her woman's knowledge she realized that even Nick had his limitations. There were certain corners of her soul which he could never penetrate. He would have understood the wild crying of her heart, but her steady stifling of that crying would have been beyond him. Simply he stood on another plane, and he would not understand that her heart must break before she could listen to its passionate entreaty. Nor could she explain herself to him. She belonged to the inexplicable and unreasonable race called woman. Her motives and emotions were hidden, and she could never hope to make them understood even by the shrewdest of men.

So she veiled her sorrow from him, little guessing how the vigilant eyes took in that also when they did not apparently so much as glance her way.

On the morning of the day on which Sir Reginald was to arrive, he kept her waiting for breakfast, a most unusual occurrence. Olga was occupied with a letter from her father, one of his brief, kindly epistles that she valued for their very rarity; and it was not till this was finished that she realized the lateness of the hour.

Then in some surprise she went along the verandah in search of him.

His window stood open as usual. She paused outside it. "Nick, aren't you coming?"

There was no reply to her call, and she was about to repeat it when Kasur the khitmutgar came along the verandah behind her.

"Miss sahib, Ratcliffe sahib has not yet come back from the city," he said.

Olga turned in astonishment. "The city, Kasur! How long has he been there? When did he go?"

The man looked at her with the deferential vagueness which only the Oriental can express. "Miss sahib, how should I know? My lord goes in the night while his servant is asleep."

"In the night!" Again incredulously she repeated his words. "And to the city! Kasur, are you sure?"

Kasur became more vague. "Perhaps he goes to the cantonments, Miss sahib. How should I know whither he goes?"

It was an unsatisfactory conversation, obviously leading in every direction but the one desired. Olga turned from him, impatient and perplexed. She went slowly back round the corner of the bungalow to the breakfast-table, set in the shade of the cluster-roses that climbed over the verandah, and sat down before it with a sinking heart. What did this mean? Was it true that Nick went nightly and by stealth to the city? What did he do there? And how came he to be there at this hour? Moment by moment her uneasiness grew. The conviction that Nick was in danger came down upon her like a bird of evil omen, and inaction became intolerable. She turned in her chair with the intention of calling to Kasur to order her horse that she might go in search of him. But in that instant a voice spoke to her from the compound immediately below her, arresting the words on her lips,—a whining, ingratiating voice.

"Mem-sahib!" it said. "Mem-sahib!"

She looked down and saw an old, old man, more like a monkey than a human being, standing huddled in a ragged chuddah on the edge of the path. He seemed to be looking at her, obviously he must have seen her sitting there, and yet to Olga his eyes looked blind. They stared straight up at the sky while he spoke, and there was a dreadful paleness about them, a lifeless hue that contrasted very strangely with the deep copper of his bearded face.

"Do not be alarmed, most gracious!" he begged in a thin reedy voice. "I come with a message from the captain sahib. He has been detained in the city; but all is well with him. He bids me to say that he desires the mem to eat alone this morning, but to have no fear. He will be with her again ere the sun has reached its height."

Olga leaned upon the balustrade of the verandah and looked down at her strange visitor. She was not sorry that she was thus raised above him, for he was very dirty. The voluminous chuddah in which he was swathed looked as if it had wrapped him in those selfsame folds for many years.

"But what is the sahib doing?" she asked. "Why doesn't he come?"

The old man wagged a deferential beard. "Excellency, how should a poor old seller of moonstones know?"

"Oh!" Olga suddenly became interested in the messenger. "You are the moonstone-seller, are you?" she said. "Have you ever been here before?"

He bent himself before her in a low salaam. "I am my lord's most humble servant," he told her meekly. "A very poor man, most gracious,—a very poor man. I come here at my lord's bidding—when he needs me."

Olga's brow puckered. "How queer!" she said. "I wonder I have never seen you before. Perhaps you only come at night."

"Only at night, most gracious," he said.

He made as if he would hobble away, but she called to him to wait, while she ran to her room to fetch a few annas for him. It took her but a second or two to find what she wanted, but when she emerged again upon the verandah her visitor had disappeared.

She stood and searched the compound with astonished eyes, but no sign of him was visible. He must have removed himself with considerable rapidity for so old a man, and remembering his extreme poverty, Olga was puzzled. She had never known a native run away from backsheesh before.

She sat down to her solitary breakfast, no longer actively anxious concerning Nick, but still by no means easy. She was firmly convinced that he was running risks in the city, and she longed to have him back.

The morning dragged away. She would not leave the bungalow lest he should return in her absence. She busied herself with the making of a fancy-dress which she and her ayah had concocted for the coming ball at the mess-house. It was to be quite an important affair, and every European within reach was to attend—according to Noel's decree. He had persuaded his colonel to have a purely European function for once, pleading that it would be so much more like Home; and Colonel Bradlaw, albeit with hesitation, had yielded the point. So to that one night's entertainment no native guests had been invited.

Noel was looking forward to the event with an enthusiasm that simply swept Olga along with it. She could not help being interested and in a measure excited. It was an absolute impossibility to be lukewarm about anything over which Noel was enthusiastic. He kindled enthusiasm wherever he went. Native fancy-dresses were tabooed by the regulations. Noel was supremely contemptuous of all things native. He meant to go as Dick Turpin himself, and she had promised to support him in a dress of the same period. It had taken considerable thought and skill to manufacture, but it was now well on the road to completion, and she sat and stitched at it throughout the morning, trying to stifle her uneasiness in the attention which it demanded.

It was not an easy matter. She found herself starting at every sound, and pausing to listen with nerves on edge. Still she persisted, determined not to give way to them; and she was in fact gradually schooling herself to a calmer frame of mind, when suddenly a thing happened that bereft her in a moment of all the composure she had striven so hard to attain. A man's hand shot—swiftly and stealthily—from behind her and covered her eyes in a flash, while a man's voice, soft and exultant, said mockingly above her head, "Guess!"

Olga uttered a cry that would have been a shriek had not the hand very swiftly shifted its position from her eyes to her mouth. She looked up into a face she knew—a face whose eyes of evil triumph made her heart stand still, and all her strength went suddenly from her. She turned as white as death and sank back into the chair from which she had half-risen. The total unexpectedness of the thing deprived her of all powers of resistance. She sat as one stunned.

He took his hand from her lips and brutally kissed them, laughing as she shrank away from him in sick horror. The gleaming mockery of his eyes was a thing she dared not meet.

"You will never guess what I have come for," he said, hanging over her, his hand gripping both of hers, his face still horribly near.

Her lips moved voicelessly in answer. She could not utter a word.

"You're awfully pleased to see me, aren't you?" he said. "That's nice of you. I wonder when you mean to pay that debt of yours—that old, sweet debt."

He spoke softly, smilingly, his eyes devouring her the while. She closed her own to avoid them. Her heart did not seem to be beating at all. She felt as if she were going to die of sheer horror there in his arms.

Softly again his voice came to her. "Come, you mustn't faint. That wouldn't be at all good for you. Open your eyes! Don't be afraid! Open them!"

They opened quiveringly, almost against her will. He was holding her closely, as if he anticipated some sudden resistance. But his eyes were on her still, burningly, possessively, menacingly. She met them shrinking, and felt as if thereby she gave herself to him body and soul.

He began to laugh again—that soft, silky laugh. "You're such a silly child," he said; "you always expect the worst. It's not wise of you. Aren't you old enough to know that yet?"

She found her voice at last, and with it came the consciousness of the slow, slow beating of her heart. "Let me go!" she said, in a breathless whisper.

"Presently; on one condition," he said.

"No, now!" The beating had begun to quicken a little, to harden into a distinct throbbing. But she felt deadly cold. Her hands, powerless in that unrelenting grasp, were as ice.

"Now don't be foolish!" said Hunt-Goring. "You're absolutely at my mercy, and it's very poor policy on your part not to recognize that fact. Just listen! You want me to let you go, you say. Well, I will let you go—for one small consideration on your part. You've never paid that debt of yours. You will pay it now—in full, freely, both arms round my neck. Come, I've a right to ask that much. It's just a whim that you can't refuse to gratify."

"I can refuse!" The words leaped from Olga. Her strength was returning, her heart quickening with every instant. "At least you can't make me do that!" she said.

"You would rather do it than marry me, I presume?" he said.

"I will never do either!" She stirred at last in his hold. She did not shrink from his eyes any longer; rather she challenged them as she stiffened herself to rise.

Hunt-Goring laughed in her face. "Oh, won't you?" he said. "I fancy you said that once before—and lived to regret it. It really is not wise of you to defy me. I warn you! I warn you!" His hold tightened upon her with sudden brutality, quelling her effort at freedom. "There are worse things than marriage," he said. "Are you utterly ignorant, I wonder, or deliberately foolhardy? Why do you always force upon me the role of villain? I tell you again, you are not wise!"

"I don't know what you mean," Olga said. She sat quite still in his hold now, for she knew that resistance was useless. Like Noel, she suddenly wondered if he were indeed sane. His eyes were unlike any she had ever seen in a human being. They glared upon her so devilishly, so murderously. She faced them with all her courage. "I don't know what you mean," she repeated. "I think you must be mad to persecute me in this way. I have always said that I would never marry you."

"But you will change your mind," he said.

She kept her eyes on his. "I shall never change my mind," she said very distinctly.

He laughed again, his lower lip between his teeth. "Even if I were mad," he said, "wouldn't you be wiser to humour me? Have you forgotten what happened when you flouted me before?"

"No, I have not forgotten." A quiver of anger went through Olga, and she suffered it, for it helped her courage. "I shall never forgive you for that," she said—"never, as long as I live!"

Hunt-Goring continued to laugh, and his laugh was an insult. "I shall get over that," he told her. "I don't want your forgiveness—especially as you had yourself alone to thank for that episode. But come now! About marrying me. You'd better give in at once; you'll have to in the end. And there are plenty of advantages to outweigh your present disinclination. For instance, my life is not considered a good one. As my widow, you would be quite a wealthy woman. Doesn't that appeal to you? And I'll give you plenty of rope even while I'm alive. I shan't interfere with your pleasures. Come, I shouldn't make such a bad husband. I'm quite respectable nowadays. I should want a little attention of course, but you wouldn't find me exacting. You'll get quite fond of me in time."

Olga barely repressed a shudder. "Never!" she said. "No, never!"

"Never?" said Hunt-Goring. He stooped a little lower over her, his arm about her shoulders despite her sick disgust. "Why never? You've sent that doctor chap about his business, haven't you?"

"He has gone, yes." She answered him briefly to hide the intolerable pain at her heart the words called up.

"But you're still hankering after him; is that it?" sneered Hunt-Goring. "Well, then, listen to me! I hold that man's future in my hands. I can ruin him utterly or—I can forbear. I'm not over-fond of him, as you know. I should rather like to see him ruined, though it would give me some little trouble to do it. What say you? I am the gladiator in the arena. I shall slay or spare—at your word alone."

Again his eyes overwhelmed her, so that she could not meet them. A great shiver went through her. She began to pant a little. "I—don't understand," she said. "You know nothing—but gossip. You—you can prove nothing."

"Can I not?" said Hunt-Goring. "You haven't a very high opinion of my intelligence, have you? Colonel Campion—I believe you know him—is scarcely the man to sit still when such gossip as that reaches his ears. As for the proofs, I know how to find them. The worthy Mrs. Briggs was on the spot, you may remember. Her evidence would be valuable. And there are other well-known means which I needn't go into now. But I assure you the circumstances themselves, properly handled, are sufficiently suspicious. You would not care to see your friend Max on his trial for murder, I presume?"

She shivered again, shivered from head to foot. She did not utter a word.

"No, I thought not," said Hunt-Goring, after a moment. "It would be especially painful for you, as your evidence also would be required. You see the position quite clearly, don't you? Come, hadn't you better give in now—and save further trouble?"

She was silent still. Only her breath came fast—as the breath of one who nears exhaustion.

Hunt-Goring waited a little, watching her white face. "Come!" he said, "I don't want to play the villain any longer. Can't you give me something better to do? I always dance to your piping."

She spoke at last, forcing her trembling lips to utterance; after repeated effort. "Go—please!" she said.

"Go?" said Hunt-Goring.

"Yes! go!" She raised her eyes for an instant, piteously entreating, to his. "I—can't talk to you now,—can't—think even. I—will see you again—later."

"When?" he said.

Her breast was rising and falling. She could not for several seconds answer him. Then: "At the ball—on Thursday," she whispered.

"You will give me my answer then?" he said.

"Yes."

He smiled—a cruel smile. "After due consultation with Nick, I suppose? No, my dear. I think not. We'll keep this thing a secret for the present—and I'll have my answer now."

"I can't answer you now!" She flung the words wildly, and rose up between his hands with desperate strength. "I can't—I can't!" she cried. "You must give me—a little time. I shan't consult—Nick or anyone. I only want—to think—by myself."

"Really?" said Hunt-Goring.

"Yes, really." She set her hands against his breast, holding him from her, yet beseeching him. "Oh, you can't refuse me this!" she urged. "It's—too small a thing. I've got to find out if—if—if I can possibly do it."

"You won't run away?" he said.

"No—no! I've nowhere to go."

"And you mention the matter to no one—on your oath—till we meet again?" His eyes were cruel still, but they were not cold. They shone upon her with a fierce heat.

She could not avoid them, though they seemed to burn her through and through. "I promise," she said through white lips.

"Very well. Till Thursday then." He let her go; and then, as if repenting, caught her suddenly back to him, savagely, passionately. "I'll have that kiss anyway," he said, "whether you take me or not. It's the price of my good behaviour till Thursday. Come, a kiss never hurt anyone, so it isn't likely to kill you."

She did not resist him. She even gave him her lips; but she was shaking as one in an ague, and her whole weight was upon him as he crushed her in his arms. So deathly was her face that after a moment even he was slightly alarmed.

He put her down again in the chair with a laugh that was not wholly self-complacent. "That's all right, then. I'll leave you to get used to the idea. You will give me my answer on Thursday, then, and we will decide on the next step. I don't mean to be kept waiting, you know. I've had enough of that."

She did not answer him or move. She was staring straight before her, with hands fast gripped together in her lap.

He bent a little. "What's the matter? I haven't hurt you. Aren't you well?"

"Quite," she said, without stirring.

He laughed again—the soft laugh she so abhorred. "Jove! What a dance you've led me!" he said. "You'll have a good deal to make up for when the time comes. I shan't let you off that."

"Will you—please—go?" said Olga, in that still voice of hers, not looking at him yet, nor moving.

He laughed again caressingly. "Yes, I'll go. You want to have a good quiet think, I suppose. But there's only one way out, you know. You'll have to give in now. And the sooner the better."

"I shall see you on Thursday," she said.

"Yes, I shall be there. Keep the supper-dances for me! We'll find a quiet corner somewhere and enjoy ourselves. Till Thursday then! Good-bye!"

"Good-bye!" she said.

He was gone. Before her wide eyes he went away along the verandah, and passed from her sight, and there fell an intense silence.

Olga sat motionless as a statue, gazing straight before her. A squirrel skipped airily on to the further end of the verandah and sat there, washing its face. Below, on the path, a large lizard flicked out from behind a stone, looked hither and thither, spied the still figure, and darted away again. And then, somewhere away among the cypresses the silence was broken; a paroquet began to screech.

Olga stirred, and a great breath burst suddenly from her—the first she had drawn in many seconds. She stretched out her hands into emptiness.

"Oh, Max!" she said. "Max! Max!"

With that bitter cry, all her strength seemed to go from her. She bowed her head upon her knees and wept bitterly, despairingly....

It must have been a full quarter of an hour later that Nick came lightly along the verandah, paused an instant behind the bowed figure, then slipped round and knelt beside it.

"Kiddie! Kiddie! What's the matter?" he said.

His one arm gathered her to him, so that she lay against his shoulder in the old childish attitude, his cheek pressed against her forehead.

She was too exhausted, too spent by that bitter paroxysm of weeping, to be startled by his sudden coming. She only clung to him weakly, whispering, "Oh, Nick, have you come back at last?"

"But of course I have," he said. "Have you been worrying about me? I sent you a message."

"I know. But I—I couldn't help being anxious." She murmured the words into his neck, her arms tightening about him.

"What a silly little sweetheart!" he said. "Is that what you've been crying for?"

She was silent.

He passed rapidly on. "You mustn't cry any more, darling. Old Reggie will be here soon, you know. He'll think I've been bullying you. Have you been sitting here by yourself all the morning? Why didn't you go down to Daisy Musgrave?"

"I didn't want to, Nick. I—I don't in the least mind being by myself," she told him, mastering herself with difficulty. "Tell me what you've been doing—all this time!"

"I?" said Nick. "Watching and listening chiefly. Not much else. Is the post in? Come and help me read my letters!"

"They're here." Olga turned and began to feel about with one hand under her work.

"All right. I'll find 'em." He let her go, and fished out his correspondence himself. She was glad that he did not look at her very critically or press further for the cause of her woe.

He sat down on the mat at her feet, and proceeded to read his letters as she handed them to him.

After a little, she took up her work again. She had quite regained her composure, only she was utterly weary—too weary to feel anything but a numb aching. All violent emotion had passed.

Suddenly Nick dropped his correspondence, and turned. "Kiddie," he said. "I'm going to chuck this job."

She looked down at him with a surprise that would have been greater but for her great weariness. "Really, Nick?"

"Yes, really. I've done my poor best, but to make a success would be a life job. Moreover," Nick's eyes suddenly gleamed, "the Party want me—or say they do. There's going to be a big tug of war in the summer, and they want me to help pull. I'm rather good at pulling," here spoke Nick's innate modesty, "and so I've got to be there.'"

"We are going Home then?" Olga's voice was low. She spoke as one whom the decision scarcely touched.

Nick leaned back luxuriously against her knees. "Yes, sweetheart, Home—Home to Muriel and the kiddie—Home to good old Jim. You won't be sorry to see your old Dad again?"

"No," she said; then, as his brows went up, she stooped forward and kissed the top of his head. "But you've been very good to me, Nick," she said. "I—I've been happier with you, dear, than I could have been with anyone."

"Save one," said Nick, flashing a swift look upwards. "And you've struck him off the list, poor beggar."

She checked him quickly, her hand on his shoulder. "Please, Nick!" she whispered.

He nodded wisely. "Yes, that hurts, doesn't it? But you're not the only one to suffer. Ever think of that?"

She did not answer him. With a quiver in her voice she changed the subject. "When do you think we shall go Home then, Nick?"

"Soon," said Nick. "Very soon. They say I can't be spared much longer. Awfully sweet of 'em, isn't it? As for this immoral little State, it ought to be put under martial law for a spell. It won't be, of course; but old Reggie will understand. He'll take measures, and relieve me of my stewardship as soon as may be. I'm sorry in a way, but I only bargained for six months. And I want to get back to Muriel." He turned to her again, with his elastic smile. "But you've been a dear little pal. You've kept me from pining," he said. "Wish your affairs might have ended more cheerily; but we won't discuss that. Let's see; you don't know Sir Reginald Bassett, do you?"

"No, dear."

"Nor Lady Bassett his wife. Good for you. Pray that you never may, and the odds are in favour of the prayer being granted. She has decided not to come after all."

"Not to come, Nick! Why, I thought it was all settled!"

Nick grinned. "Her heart has failed her at the last moment. She doesn't like immoral States." He waved a letter jubilantly in the air. "No matter, my dear. We shall get on excellently without her. She isn't your sort at all." He broke into a laugh. "She's the only woman of my acquaintance I don't love, and the only one—literally—who doesn't love me."

"How horrid of her, Nick! I'm sure I should hate her."

"I'm sure you would, dear. So it's just as well—all things considered—that you are not going to meet. Well, I must go and get respectable." He rose with a quick, lithe movement, but paused, looking down at her quizzically to ask: "What did you think of my friend the moonstone-seller? Pretty, isn't he?"

She smiled for the first time. "I'm sure he's quite disreputable. He disappeared in the most mysterious fashion. I wonder if he's lurking about anywhere still, waiting to murder us in our beds."

"I wonder," said Nick.

But he did not trouble himself to look round for the mysterious one, nor did the possibility of being murdered seem to disturb him greatly. He went away to his room, humming a love-song below his breath. And Olga knew that his thoughts were far away in England, where Muriel was waiting to welcome him Home.



CHAPTER XXI

THE GATHERING STORM

Looking back in after days, the time that elapsed between the coming of Sir Reginald Bassett and the night of the Fancy-Dress Ball at the mess-house was to Olga as a whirling nightmare. She took part in all the gaieties that she and Noel had so busily planned, but she went through them as one in the grip of some ghastly dream, beholding through all the festivities the shadow of inexorable Fate drawing near. For she was caught in the net at last, hopelessly, irrevocably enmeshed. From the very outset she had realized that. There could no longer be any way of escape for her, for she could not accept deliverance at the price that must be paid for it. She did not so much as seek to escape, knowing her utter helplessness. Rebellion was a thing of the past. Her spirit was broken. Had she been still engaged to Max, the struggle, though hopeless, would have been more fierce. But since that was over, there was little left to fight for on her own account. Hate and loathe the man as she might, she was forced to own his mastery. To pass from the desert to an inferno was not so racking a contrast as if he had dragged her direct from her paradise.

Later, when the first paralysis of despair had passed, when her captor came to take full possession, she would rebel again wildly, madly. There would be a frightful struggle between them, the last fierce effort of her instinct to be free from a bondage that revolted her. Vaguely, from afar, she viewed that inevitable battle, and in her mind the conviction grew that she would not survive it. The thing was too monstrous. It would kill her.

But for the present her power of resistance was dead. Max must be protected, and this was the only way. She did not dare to think of him in those days, save as it were in the abstract. He filled a certain chamber in her heart which she never entered. He had gone out of her life more completely than if he had died, for she cherished no tender memory of him. She turned away from the bare thought of him, and in the naked horrors of the night, when she lay cold and staring while the hours crawled by, she deliberately banished him from her mind. She was going to do this thing for his sake—this thing that she firmly believed would kill her—but she barred him away from her agony. Not even in thought could she endure his presence at the sacrifice.

So, without struggle, those awful days passed, and she mingled with the gay crowd, instinctively hiding the plague-spot in her soul. Each day she encountered Hunt-Goring at one function or another, meeting the gleam in his dark eyes with no outward tremor but with a heart gone cold. He made no attempt to be alone with her; he was content to bide his time, knowing that the game was his. And each night the memory of his hateful kisses wound like a thread of evil through her brain, banishing all rest.

It was on the afternoon preceding the Ball that Nick called her out to the verandah where he and Sir Reginald were sitting. She liked Sir Reginald, he was genial and kindly and exceedingly easy to entertain.

He drew forward a chair beside him as she approached. "Come and join us, Miss Ratcliffe! Nick and I have been having a very lengthy confab. I am afraid you will accuse me of monopolizing him."

Olga came to the chair and sat beside him. "I hope you have been telling him to stop his visits to the native quarter at night," she said. "They are very bad for him. Look how thin he is getting!"

Nick laughed, but Sir Reginald shook his head. "If I may be allowed to say so, I don't think you are either of you looking very robust," he said. "India plays tricks with us, doesn't she? It doesn't do to let her get too strong a hold. I think Nick will be in a position to take you Home before the end of next month, Miss Ratcliffe. His work here is practically done, and a very brilliant service he has rendered the Government. It has been a very delicate task, and he has accomplished it with marked ability."

"Oh, is it finished?" said Olga.

"Not finished—no!" said Nick. "And never will be with Kobad Shikan in power. But I rather fancy the days of that old gentleman's supremacy are drawing to an end. I've been teaching friend Akbar a thing or two lately. He is beginning to see which way the cat jumps, and to realize that the only way to hold his own is to hold by his masters. I've been the antidote to a big dose of sedition administered by the hoary Kobad, and I fancy I've brought him round. Kobad's influence is undermined in all directions, and I fancy the old sinner is beginning to know it."

"I knew he was a horrid old man!" said Olga.

Nick laughed again. "He entertains a very lively hatred for all of us that nothing will ever eradicate. But he belongs to the old regime, so what could one expect? I have even heard it whispered that he served with the rebel sepoys in the Mutiny. However, his day is done. Akbar is no longer under his influence. He will strike out a line for himself now. I've won him round to the British raj, and if he isn't assassinated by Kobad's people, he'll do. It's a pity they can't have martial law for a bit," he added to Sir Reginald. "They would settle in half the time. Hang a few, shoot a few, and—"

"Nick!" said Olga, in astonishment.

He stretched out his one hand and laid it on her knee. "And flog a few," he finished, smiling at her. "There would be some chance for the State then. Yes, I'm a blood-thirsty creature. Didn't you know? One can't wear gloves for this game."

Olga held his hand in silence. She had learned more of Nick in the past five months than she had ever known before. Undoubtedly he had become more of the man to her and less of the hero. She did not love him any the less for it, but her attitude towards him was different.

She knew he had divined the change, and suspected him of being amused thereby—a suspicion which he strengthened by saying with a laugh, "You didn't know I could be such a brute, did you?"

She smiled back a little wistfully. "I begin to think you could be almost anything, Nick," she said.

He shot her a swift glance, and it seemed to her for a moment that he was looking for a double meaning to her words. But apparently he found none, for he smiled again with the comfortable remark, "Ah, well, it's a useful faculty if exercised with discretion. What are you going to wear to-night? Let's hear all about it!"

That was the new Nick all over, displaying the male denseness with which she had never been wont to credit him. She gave him details of her costume without much ardour, he listening with careless comments.

"You don't sound very keen," he said suddenly. "I believe you're getting blase."

"These things get a little monotonous, don't they?" said Sir Reginald.

His smile was sympathetic. She felt inexplicably that he understood her better than did Nick. He had fathomed the deadly weariness that Nick had overlooked.

"Go on!" commanded Nick. "Who are you going to dance with?"

She hesitated a little, and he turned his hand and pinched her fingers somewhat mercilessly. "Noel of course—he's too handsome to refuse, isn't he? And the rest of the boys will expect their share, doubtless. But remember—the supper-dances are mine."

She started a little. "Oh, Nick dear, I'm afraid I've promised those already."

"To whom?" said Nick swiftly.

"Major Hunt-Goring." Her voice was low; she did not look at him as she uttered the name.

Nick's eyebrows shot upwards with lightning rapidity; then drew into a frown. He was silent for a moment before he said very decidedly, "I'm not going to let you dance with Hunt-Goring, so you may as well pass his dances on to me. If he wants to know the reason, he can ask me—and I shall be delighted to tell him."

He spoke in a fighting tone; there was fight in the grip of his hand. Olga noted it, and foresaw trouble.

"I'm afraid it's too late now, Nick," she said rather wearily. "I must keep my engagements."

Nick turned and sent one of his keen glances over her. "You won't keep this one," he told her. "I am simply not going to allow it. Those supper-dances are mine, so make up your mind to that!"

He spoke with a finality that made protest seem futile. It seemed to Olga that the yellow face had never looked so grim. She made no further effort to withstand him, aware that to do so would entail a battle of wills which could only end in her defeat. Perhaps deep in the heart of her she was even thankful for this brief reprieve.

She said nothing therefore, and Sir Reginald considerately turned the subject by asking Nick what disguise he intended to assume.

"I?" said Nick. "I haven't absolutely decided, sir. I've got a fool's dress somewhere that might serve."

He turned, releasing Olga's hand, to take a screw of paper from a salver with which Kasur at that moment approached him.

He glanced at Sir Reginald as he did so, muttered a word of excuse, and deftly opened it. The next instant he crumpled it again in his hand, and spoke over his shoulder to the waiting native.

"Say I will see the moonstone before it is sent away!"

The man departed, and Nick rose. "Afraid I shall have to go to the Palace, sir. Olga, you must take care of Sir Reginald in my absence."

"What! Now, Nick?" Olga looked up in swift surprise.

"Yes, now, my child. Good-bye!" He stooped and lightly kissed her. "I daresay I shan't be late back. If I am, you must go to the Ball without me, and get Sir Reginald to take care of you. I shall turn up some time, you may be sure."

"Important, is it?" asked Sir Reginald.

Nick nodded. "I ought to go, sir. Don't wait for me. I shall follow on if I'm late. In any case," he turned to Olga, "I shall be in time for those supper-dances."

His look flashed over her with a species of quizzical tenderness. "And you are not to give any dances to Hunt-Goring, mind, whatever the bounder says."

He was gone. Free, careless, upright, he strode humming along the verandah and swung round the corner out of sight.

A brief silence descended upon the two who were left. Olga glanced once or twice at Sir Reginald, whose brows were drawn in deep thought.

At length, with slight hesitation she spoke, voicing the anxiety that had been growing within her for many days. "Sir Reginald, do you think he is in any danger when he goes to the city?"

The old soldier came out of his reverie, and met her eyes. He smiled at her, albeit his own were grave. "He is extremely shrewd and capable," he said. "I do not think there is much likelihood of his being taken unawares."

"But it is dangerous?" Olga insisted.

"There is a certain amount of risk certainly." Gravely he admitted the fact. "But I think you need not be over-anxious," he added, with a kindly smile. "Nick is one of those clever people who always manage to win through somehow. They always used to say of him on the Frontier that he bore a charmed life. He has a positive genius for wriggling out of tight corners."

He wished to reassure her, she saw; but somehow she did not feel reassured. The conviction was growing upon her that Nick was exposing himself to a danger that would have appalled her had she realized it to its fullest extent.

She said no more to Sir Reginald, but her heart sank. The clouds were gathering thicker and ever thicker on her horizon. She did not dare to look forward any more.



CHAPTER XXII

THE REPRIEVE

"I say, you're magnificent!" said Noel. His hand closed tightly upon Olga's with the words. He looked her up and down with a free admiration too boyish to be offensive. "You're an absolute darling in that get-up!" he told her with enthusiasm.

It was impossible to be indignant. Olga tried and failed. She had not been aware till that moment that she was making a particularly brave show in her eighteenth-century costume, with her pink satin finery and powdered hair. But there was no mistaking the adulation in the boy's eyes, and even in the midst of her misery she felt a little glow of gratification. He was looking alluringly disreputable in his highwayman's dress, and the dark eyes shone upon her with fascinating audacity as he lifted her hand to his lips.

"So you haven't brought Nick with you?" he said, speaking with laughing haste to cut short her half-hearted rebuke.

"No, Nick was called away," she said. "He'll come later if he can."

"Called away, was he?" Noel paused, with her programme in his hand. "Is that what you are looking so worried about?"

She tried to laugh. "Yes, I am rather worried about him. I am afraid he is taking—big risks."

"Little idiot!" said Noel. "When he's got you to look after. But what do you mean by risks? Where has he gone?"

"I don't know," she said, with a shake of the head. "I don't know anything, Noel. He said something about going to see a moonstone, but I think that was only a blind. He can be rather subtle, you know, when he likes."

"Confound him!" said Noel. "Why doesn't he turn his attention to taking care of you? I've been wanting to have a talk to you for days, but I couldn't work it somehow."

Olga held out her hand for her programme; it shook ever so slightly. "I don't think we have anything very important to talk about," she said.

"But we have!" he said impetuously. "At least I have. Oh, damn!—a million apologies! I couldn't help it!—here's that brute Hunt-Goring. You're not going to dance with him? Say you're full up!"

Hunt-Goring, attired as a Turk, was crossing the room towards them. Olga cast a single glance over her shoulder, and turned to Noel with panic in her eyes.

"I've forgotten something," she said in a palpitating whisper. "I must run back to the cloak-room. Wait for me!"

She was gone with the words, fleeing like a hunted creature, till the gathering crowd hid her from sight.

Hunt-Goring smiled, and turned aside. He had no pressing desire for a public meeting. His turn was coming,—the very fact of her flight proclaimed it,—and he could very well afford to wait. He would make her pay full measure for that same waiting.

He passed Noel's scowl with a lazy sneer. The young man would pay also, and that reflection was nectar to his soul. Carelessly he betook himself to the verandah. The dancing did not attract him—so he had told Daisy Musgrave earlier in the day, a remark of which she had been swift to take advantage. For her weariness of her guest was very nearly apparent by that time, and it was a relief to be able to relax her duties as hostess for that evening at least.

The dancing began to the strains of the regimental band, and soon the motley throng were all gathered in the ball-room. It did not look like an all-British assembly, but the nationality of the laughing voices was quite unmistakable. All talked and laughed as they danced, and the hubbub was considerable.

Into it Olga came stealing back, and paused nervously in the doorway to look on. Daisy, dressed as a water-nymph, waved her a gay greeting over her husband's shoulder. Olga smiled and waved back, striving to smother away out of sight the sick fear at her heart.

Someone touched her shoulder, and she started round almost with a cry.

Noel bent to her. "Sorry I made you jump. Look here! There's no one in the ante-room. Come and sit out with me!"

He offered his arm, and she took it thankfully without a word. They went away together.

The ante-room was dimly lighted, and comparatively quiet, though the music and laughter and swish of dancing feet were fully audible there. Noel found her a comfortable chair, and seated himself upon the arm thereof.

He did not speak at once, but after a little, as Olga sat in silence, he turned and looked down at her.

She raised her eyes at once and smiled. "You must think me very foolish," she said.

"No, I don't," he rejoined bluntly. "That brute is enough to scare any woman. You hate him, don't you?"

There was insistence in his tone, insistence mingled with a touch of anxiety. But Olga did not answer him.

"Don't let us talk about him!" she said, with a shiver she could not repress.

Noel's mouth hardened a little. "I'm very sorry," he said. "But we must. He's been circulating a lot of lies about—Max." He paused an instant, looking straight down at her. "Max is a good chap, you know," he said. "It's up to me to defend him."

Olga's face quivered, but she kept her eyes lifted. "You can't," she said, her voice very low.

"Can't I, though?" Hotly he threw back the words. "You don't mean to say you believe it?"

"I know it is true," she said.

"My dear Olga,—" he began.

But she checked him, her hand upon his arm. "Noel," she said, "truly I can't talk about this. But that story is—true, in part at least. Max admitted it—himself—to me."

"Impossible!" ejaculated Noel.

Her fingers closed over his sleeve; her hold was beseeching. "I can't argue with you, Noel," she said. "But I know it is true. You see, I was there."

He stared at her in stupefaction. "Olga, I can't believe it!"

"It is true," she said again.

"But—" Noel began to waver in spite of himself—"if you were there, you must have known all along!"

Her brows drew into the old lines of perplexity. "You see, I was ill," she said. "I—I didn't remember. I don't remember all the details even now. I only know that—it happened. Max told me so—when I asked him."

"Good heavens above!" ejaculated Noel.

She went on drearily, as if he had not spoken. "That was the end of everything between us; and it's just as well now. For I shouldn't have been able to marry him even if it hadn't been."

"Why not?" said Noel.

She looked away from him, and was silent.

He leaned down towards her, and spoke quickly, urgently.

"Olga dear, forgive me for asking, but I must know. Don't you really love him?"

She made a little unconscious gesture of the hands as of pushing something from her. "No," she said.

"But you did?" he insisted.

She leaned her elbow on her knee, lodging her chin upon her hand. "I thought I did—once," she said slowly. "But—it was a mistake."

"It couldn't have been," he said.

She nodded slowly two or three times, not turning her head. "Yes," she said, with the air of one clinching an argument. "It was a mistake."

Noel was silent for a few moments. There was something in her set profile that hurt him. He longed to see her full face. But she did not move. She seemed almost to have forgotten that he was there.