So the Assistant had not long to wait for an opportunity to show his mettle.  Dermot had not been gone a fortnight before one or two raids were attempted on British villages by lawless mountaineers from across the Bhutan frontier.  Wargrave soon proved that the mantle of Colonel Dermot had not fallen on unworthy shoulders.  Single-handed he intercepted and faced a party of Bhutanese swordsmen swooping down from the hills on a tea-garden in search of loot, shot the leader and two of his followers and put the rest to flight.  With a handful of sepoys of the Military Police he surprised a Bhuttia village in the No Man’s Land along the border-line and captured a notorious outlaw who had plundered in Indian territory and had sent him a defiant challenge.

Wargrave was glad of the excitement and the occupation, for they kept him from brooding over his troubles and worrying about the future.  He had not time to puzzle over Violet’s silence.  She had not written to him since their parting.  As a matter of fact she seldom thought of him, so engrossed was she in the pursuit of pleasure.  Admittedly the prettiest woman in Darjeeling that season she received enough attention and admiration to turn any woman’s head; and she enjoyed it all to the full.  Although she had answered Rosenthal’s letter from Bangalore he had not written again; but she felt that he was not forgetting her.  She thought oftener of him than of Wargrave; for the vision of the great riches that she might one day share with him fascinated her.  It haunted her dreams sleeping and waking.  Often she let her fancy stray to the existence that he had promised would be hers when he was the possessor of his father’s fortune, a life of luxury in the gayest cities of the world with all that immense wealth could bestow, a life infinitely better worth living than her present one.  Would she ever be given the chance of it?

The question was speedily and unexpectedly answered.  One morning after breakfast she received a telegram from Rosenthal.  It said: 

    “My father is dead.  I sail from Bombay for South Africa on Friday to
    settle up his affairs.  Will you come?”

She stared at the paper almost uncomprehendingly for a few moments.  Then the meaning of the message dawned on her.  She sat down at her writing-table and thought hard.  She had little time in which to make up her mind; for if she wished to reach Bombay before Rosenthal sailed she would have to leave Darjeeling that afternoon.  What should she do?  Should she go?  She found a pencil and a telegraph form and addressed the latter to the Hussar.  Then she hesitated.  But she was not long in coming to a decision.  With a firm hand she wrote the one word “Yes” and signed her name.  Then she rose from the table, called a hotel servant, despatched the telegram and went to her bedroom to pack.  And the same train that took her away from Darjeeling carried a letter from her to Wargrave.