With the passing of the storm a slight draught that was like a shudder moved the scorched leaves of the acacias in the compound, quivered a little, and ceased.  Then came the dawn, revealing mass upon mass of piled cloud hanging low over the earth.  The breaking of the monsoon was drawing very near.  There could be no lifting of the atmosphere, no relief, until it came.

She leaned her aching head against the window-frame in a maze of weariness unutterable.  Her heart was too heavy for prayer.

Minutes passed.  The daylight grew and swiftly overspread all things.  The leaden silence began to be pierced here and there by the barking of a dog, the crowing of a cock, the scolding of a parrot.  Somewhere, either in the compound or close to it, some one began to whistle—­a soft, tentative whistle, like a young blackbird trying its notes.

Muriel remained motionless, scarcely heeding while it wove itself into the background of her thoughts.  She was in fact hardly aware of it, till suddenly, with a great thrill of astonishment that shook her from head to foot, a wild suspicion seized her, and she started up, listening intently.  The fitful notes were resolving into a melody—­a waltz she knew, alluring, enchanting, compelling—­the waltz that had filled in the dreadful silences on that night long ago when she had fought so desperately hard for her freedom and had prevailed at last.  But stay!  Had she prevailed?  Had she not rather been a captive in spite of it all ever since?

On and on went the haunting waltz-refrain, now near, now far, now summoning, now eluding.  She stood gripping the curtain till she could bear it no longer, and then with a great sob she mustered her resolution; she stepped out upon the verandah, and passed down between shrivelled trailing roses to the garden below.

The tune ceased quite suddenly, and she found herself moving through a silence that could be felt.  But she would not turn back then.  She would not let herself be discouraged.  She had been frightened so often when there had been no need for fear.

On she pressed to the end of the path till she stood by the high fence that bordered the road.  She could see no one.  The garden lay absolutely deserted.  She paused, hesitating, bewildered.

At the same instant from the other side of the fence, almost as if rising from the ground at her feet, a careless voice began to hum—­a cracked, tuneless, unmistakable voice, that sent the blood to her heart with a force that nearly suffocated her.

“Nick!” she said, almost in a whisper.

He did not hear her evidently.  His humming continued with unabated liveliness.

“Nick!” she said again.

Still no result.  There was nothing in the least dramatic in the situation.  It might almost have been described as ludicrous, but the white-faced woman in the compound did not find it so.

She waited till he had come to a suitable stopping place, and then, before he could renew the melody, she rapped with nervous force upon the fence.