“It’s Mrs. Norton,” he said.

“Mrs. Norton?” echoed his friend.  “What the—­what’s she got to do with it?”

Raymond threw himself into a chair.

“Someone’s been making mischief.  The C.O.’s been told that there might be a scandal so he’s got scared lest trouble should come to him.”

Frank stared blankly at the speaker, then suddenly turned and walked out of the bungalow.  The pony was standing huddled into the patch of shade at the side of the house, the syce squatting on the ground at its head and holding the reins.  Wargrave sprang into the saddle and galloped out of the compound.  Raymond ran to the verandah and saw him thundering down the sandy road that led to the residency.

Arrived at the big white building Frank pulled up his panting pony on its haunches and dismounting threw the reins over its head and left it unattended.

Walking to the hall door he cried: 

“Koi hai?”

A drowsy chuprassi at the back of the hall sprang up and hurried to receive him.

“Memsahib hai? (Is the mistress in?)”

“Hai, sahib. (Yes, sir)” said the servant salaaming.

Wargrave was free of the house and, taking off his hat, went into the cool hall and walked up the great staircase.  He entered the drawing-room.  After the blinding glare outside the closely-shuttered apartment seemed so dark that at first it was difficult for him to see if it were tenanted or not.  But it was empty; and he paced the floor impatiently, frowning in chaotic thought.

“Good morning, Frank.  You are early to-day.  And what a bad temper you seem to be in!” exclaimed a laughing voice; and Mrs. Norton, looking radiant and delightfully cool in a thin white Madras muslin dress, entered the room.

He went to her.

“They’re sending me away, Violet,” he said.

“Sending you away?” she repeated in an astonished tone.  “Sending you where?”

“To hell, I think,” he cried.  “Oh, I beg your pardon.  I mean—­yes, they’re sending me away from Rohar, from you.  Sending me to the other side of India.”

The blood slowly left her face as she stared uncomprehendingly at him.

“Sending you away?  Why?” she asked.

“Because—­because we’re friends, little girl.”

“Because we’re friends,” she echoed.  “What do you mean?  But you mustn’t go.”

“I must.  I can’t help it.  I’ve got to go.”

Pale as death Violet stared at him.

“Got to go?  To leave me?”

Then with a choking cry she threw her arms about his neck and sobbed.

“You mustn’t.  You mustn’t leave me.  I can’t live without you.  I love you.  I love you.  I’ll die if you go from me.”