up their hands in warning and vanished slowly from sight as their sure-footed horses picked their way down a steep nullah.  This was the ravine in which the quarry hid.  One after another of the riders followed the leaders down the narrow track, trotted across the sandy, rock-strewn river-bed and climbed up the far side to where the fresh horses and a picturesque mob of wild-looking beaters stood awaiting them.

Among the animals Wargrave noticed a smart grey Arab pony with a side-saddle.

“I see Mrs. Norton intends coming out with us,” observed the Maharajah looking at the pony.  “We must wait for her.”

“It won’t be for long, sir,” said Raymond, pointing to a rising trail of dust on the track by which they had come.  “I’ll bet that is she.”

All turned to watch the approaching rider draw near, until they could see that it was a lady galloping furiously over the sand.

“By Jove, she can ride!” exclaimed Wargrave admiringly.  “I hope she’ll see the nullah.  She’s heading straight for it.”

A shouted warning caused her to pull up almost on the brink; and in a few minutes she joined the waiting group.  Wargrave looked with interest at her, as she sat on her panting horse talking to the Maharajah and the other officers, who had dismounted.

Mrs. Norton was a decidedly graceful and pretty woman.  The rounded curves of her shapely figure were set off to advantage by her riding-costume.  Her eyes were especially attractive, greenish-grey eyes fringed by long black lashes under curved dark brows contrasting with the warm auburn tint of the hair that showed under her sunhat.  Her complexion was dazzlingly fair.  Her mouth was rather large and voluptuous with full red lips and even white teeth.  Bewitching dimples played in the pink cheeks.  Even from a man like Wargrave, fresh from England and consequently more inclined to be critical of female beauty than were his comrades, who for many months had seen so few white women, Mrs. Norton’s good looks could justly claim full meed of admiration and approval.

Accepting Captain Ross’s aid she slipped lightly from her saddle to the ground and on foot looked as graceful as she did when mounted.  Raymond brought his friend to her and introduced him.

Holding out a small and shapely hand in a dainty leather gauntlet she said in a frank and pleasant manner: 

“How do you do, Mr. Wargrave?  You are a fortunate person to have been in England so lately.  I haven’t seen it for nearly three years.  Weren’t you sorry to leave it?”

“Not in the least, Mrs. Norton.  I’d far sooner be doing this,” he waved his hand towards the horses and the open desert, “than fooling about Piccadilly and the Park.”

“Oh, but don’t you miss the gaieties of town, the theatres, the dances?  And then the shops and the new fashions—­but you’re a man, and they’d mean nothing to you.”

The Maharajah broke in: