“Confound the woman!”

And closing his eyes resolutely he fell asleep.

In the days that elapsed before the shoot at Marwa, Wargrave rode every afternoon to the Residency with the syce carrying his violin case, except when tennis was to be played.  In their small community this could not escape notice and comment—­not that it occurred to him to try to avoid either.  The Resident did not object to the frequency of his visits; and Frank saw no harm in his friendship with Mrs. Norton.  But others did; and the remarks of the two ladies of his regiment on the subject were venomously spiteful.  But their censure was reserved for the one they termed “that shameless woman”; for like everyone else they were partial to Wargrave and held him less to blame.

His brother officers, although being men they were not so quick to nose out a scandal, could not help noticing his absorption in Mrs. Norton’s society.  One afternoon his Double Company Commander, Major Hepburn, walked into the compound of Raymond’s bungalow and on the verandah shouted the usual Anglo-Indian caller’s demand: 

“Boy! Koi hai?” (Is anyone there?)

A servant hurried out and salaaming answered: 

“Adjitan Sahib hai.” (The adjutant is here).

“Oh, come in, Major,” cried Raymond, rising from the table at which he was seated drinking his tea.

“Don’t get up,” said Hepburn, entering the room.  “Is Wargrave in?”

“No, sir; he went out half an hour ago.”

“Confound it, it seems impossible ever to find him in the afternoon nowadays,” said the major petulantly.  “I wanted him to get up a hockey match against No. 3 Double Company to-day.  He used to be very keen on playing with the men; but since he came back from England he never goes near them.  Where is he?  Poodlefaking at the Residency, as usual?”

This is the term contemptuously applied in India to the paying of calls and other social duties that imply dancing attendance on the fair sex.

“I didn’t see him before he went out, sir,” was Raymond’s equivocal reply.  He loyally evaded a direct answer.

Hepburn shook his head doubtfully.

“I’m sorry about it.  I hope the boy doesn’t get into mischief.  Look here, Raymond, you’re his pal.  Keep your eye on him.  He’s a good lad; and it would be a pity if he came to grief.”

The adjutant did not answer.  The major put on his hat.

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to see to the hockey myself.”

He left the bungalow with a curt nod to Raymond, who watched him pass out through the compound gate.  Then the adjutant walked over to Wargrave’s writing-table and stood up again in its place a large photograph of Mrs. Norton which he had hurriedly laid face downwards when he heard Hepburn’s voice outside.  He looked at it for a minute, then turned away frowning.