But the Hussar drove her back from Government House to Poona in his particularly luxurious Rolls-Royce with an English chauffeur and would hardly let her go when the car drew up before the door of the Munster Hotel where she was staying.  Laughing, crushed and dishevelled, she broke from him and jumped out of the automobile, ran up the verandah steps and turned to wave to him as the chauffeur started off to take him to his quarters in the Club of Western India.

Still smiling Violet stumbled up the unlighted stairs and reached her sitting-room.  When she turned up the lamp a letter lying on the table caught her eyes.  She picked it up indifferently; but when she saw that it bore the handwriting of one of her Calcutta cousins and the Darjeeling postmark she tore it open eagerly and ran her eye rapidly down the pages.  She came to the lines: 

“I have seen the man you asked me about.  He is always with a girl called Benson, rather a pretty little thing.  She is popular with all the men; but Mr. Wargrave seems to be the favourite.  They are staying at the same hotel; and everyone says they are engaged.”

Then the writer went on to talk of family matters.  But Violet read no more.  Her eyes flamed with anger as she crumpled the paper up, flung it on the floor and stamped it under foot.  She paced the room angrily, tearing the lace handkerchief she held in her hands to shreds.  This, then, was Frank’s loyalty to her, this was how he consoled himself for her absence.  With this chit of a girl, with whom he probably laughed at her, Violet’s readiness to give up reputation, good fame, home, for him.  She almost sobbed with jealous rage at the idea.  She forgot her own infidelities and want of remembrance and felt herself to be a deceived and much-abused woman.  But she would not bear such treatment meekly.  Frank was hers; no other woman had a right to him, should ever have him.  She was resolved on that.  She stopped and, picking up the letter, smoothed it out and re-read it.  Then, frowning, she passed into her bedroom and tore off her costume.  Not for an instant did she sleep during the remainder of the night, but tossed on her bed, revolving plans of vengeance.

Next day she was seated in the train on her way to Darjeeling, a journey that would take days.  She had telegraphed fruitlessly for a room at the Oriental Hotel at which she knew from his letters that Frank was staying; but she had secured one at the larger Eastern Palace where her Calcutta relatives were residing.  Only on the second day of her journey did she wire to Wargrave, bidding him meet her on her arrival.

As the train carried her across India her heart was still filled with anger, jealousy and almost hate of the man whom she had favoured above all others and who spurned her, dared to be faithless to her, it seemed.  She did not know how much love she had left for him; for his image had grown dim in the flight of time and among the distractions of gayer stations than Rohar.  Certainly she had flirted herself, flirted recklessly; but that was a different matter to his faithlessness.  She might do it; but he must not.  Did she want him?  She hardly knew.  But she was not going to be put aside for this tiger-killing young person, this jungle girl, who must be taught not to trespass on Violet’s property.