On the night of their arrival, when Stella had gone to her room, Tommy spoke very seriously of his sister’s state and begged Mrs. Ralston to do her utmost to combat the apathy which he had found himself wholly unable to pierce.

“I haven’t seen her shed a single tear,” he said.  “People who didn’t know would think her heartless.  I can’t bear to see that deadly coldness.  It isn’t Stella.”

“We must be patient,” Mrs. Ralston said.

There were tears in the boy’s own eyes for which she liked him, but she did not encourage him to further confidence.  It was not her way to discuss any friend with a third person, however intimate.

Tommy left the subject without realizing that she had turned him from it.

“I don’t know in the least how she is left,” he said restlessly.  “Haven’t an idea what sort of state Dacre’s affairs were in.  I ought to have asked him, but I never had the chance; and everything was done in such a mighty hurry.  I don’t suppose he had much to leave if anything.  It was a fool marriage,” he ended bitterly.  “I always hated it.  Monck knew that.”

“Doesn’t Captain Monck know anything?” asked Mrs. Ralston.

“Oh, goodness knows.  Monck’s away on urgent business, been away for ever so long now.  I haven’t seen him since Dacre’s death.  I daresay he doesn’t even know of that yet.  He had to go Home.  I suppose he is on his way back again now; I hope so anyway.  It’s pretty beastly without him.”

“Poor Tommy!” Mrs. Ralston’s sympathy was uppermost again.  “It’s been a tragic business altogether.  But let us be thankful we have dear Stella safely back!  I am going to say good night to her now.  Help yourself to anything you want!”

She went, and Tommy stretched himself out on a long chair with a sigh of discontent over things in general.  He had had no word from Monck throughout his absence, and this was almost the greatest grievance of all.

Treading softly the passage that led to Stella’s door, Mrs. Ralston nearly stumbled over a crouching, white-clad figure that rose up swiftly and noiselessly on the instant and resolved itself into the salaaming person of Peter the Sikh.  He had slept across Stella’s threshold ever since her bereavement.

“My mem-sahib is still awake,” he told her with a touch of wistfulness.  “She sleeps only when the night is nearly spent.”

“And you sleep at her door?” queried Mrs. Ralston, slightly disconcerted.

The tall form bent again with dignified courtesy.  “That is my privilege, mem-sahib,” said Peter the Great.

He smiled mournfully, and made way for her to pass.

Mrs. Ralston knocked, and heard a low voice speak in answer.  “What is it, Peter?”

Softly she opened the door.  “It is I, my dear.  Are you in bed?  May I come and bid you good night?”

“Of course,” Stella made instant reply.  “How good you are!  How kind!”