“A Mrs. Oliver,” replied Ralston, “She was at Srinagar in Cashmere this summer, staying with the Resident.  My sister met her there, I think she told Mrs. Oliver you were likely to come to us about this time.”

Dick’s heart leaped within him suddenly.  Had Violet Oliver arranged her visit so that it might coincide with his?  It was at all events a pleasant fancy to play with.  He looked up at the windows of the house.  She was really there!  After all these months he would see her.  No wonder the windows were bright.  As they rode up to the porch and the door was opened, he heard her voice.  She was singing in the drawing-room, and the door of the drawing-room stood open.  She sang in a low small voice, very pretty to the ear, and she was accompanying herself softly on the piano.  Dick stood for a while listening in the lofty hall, while Ralston looked over his letters which were lying upon a small table.  He opened one of them and uttered an exclamation.

“This is from my man at Ajmere,” he said, but Dick paid no attention.  Ralston glanced through the letter.

“He has found him,” he cried.  “Shere Ali is in Ajmere.”

It took a moment or two for the words to penetrate to Linforth’s mind.  Then he said slowly: 

“Oh!  Shere Ali’s in Ajmere.  I must start for Ajmere to-morrow.”

Ralston looked up from his letters and glanced at Linforth.  Something in the abstracted way in which Linforth had spoken attracted his attention.  He smiled: 

“Yes, it’s a pity,” he said.  But again it seemed that Linforth did not hear.  And then the voice at the piano stopped abruptly as though the singer had just become aware that there were people talking in the hall.  Linforth moved forward, and in the doorway of the drawing-room he came face to face with Violet Oliver.  Ralston smiled again.

“There’s something between those two,” he said to himself.  But Linforth had kept his secrets better half an hour ago.  For it did not occur to Ralston to suspect that there had been something also between Violet Oliver and Shere Ali.

CHAPTER XXV

IN THE ROSE GARDEN

“Let us go out,” said Linforth.

It was after dinner on the same evening, and he was standing with Violet Oliver at the window of the drawing-room.  Behind them an officer and his wife from the cantonment were playing “Bridge” with Ralston and his sister.  Violet Oliver hesitated.  The window opened upon the garden.  Already Linforth’s hand was on the knob.

“Very well,” she said.  But there was a note of reluctance in her voice.

“You will need a cloak,” he said.

“No,” said Violet Oliver.  She had a scarf of lace in her hand, and she twisted it about her throat.  Linforth opened the long window and they stepped out into the garden.  It was a clear night of bright stars.  The chill of sunset had passed, the air was warm.  It was dark in spite of the stars.  The path glimmered faintly in front of them.