“You do not seem to miss me much among your new friends.  While I am leading a most unhappy and miserable life here you appear to be enjoying yourself and giving little thought to me.  You are lucky to have two such very beautiful ladies to make much of you; and I daresay they think you a wonderful hero for saving the little brats who, if they are like most children, would not be much loss.  Their mother seems extremely friendly to you for such a devoted wife as you try to make her out to be.  Or perhaps it is the girl you admire most; this marvellous young lady who shoots tigers and apparently manages the whole Terai Forest.  You say you love me; but you don’t seem to be pining very much for me.  While each day that comes since you left me is a fresh agony to me, you appear to contrive to be quite happy without me.”

This letter stung Wargrave like the lash of a whip across the face.  To do Violet justice no sooner had she sent it than she regretted it.  But deeply hurt as he was by the bitter words he forgave her; for he felt that her life was indeed miserable and that he was unconsciously in a great measure to blame for its being so.  But it maddened him to realise his present helplessness to alter matters.  He was more than willing to sacrifice himself to help her; but it would be a long time before he could hope to save enough to pay his debts and make a home for her.  Whether it was wicked or not to take away another man’s wife did not occur to him; all that he knew was that a woman was unhappy and he alone could help her.  It seemed to him that the sin—­if sin there were—­was the husband’s, who starved her heart and rendered her miserable.

In his distress work and sport proved his salvation.  He threw himself heart and soul into his duty, and whenever there was nothing for him to do with the detachment Major Hunt encouraged him to go with the Political Officer into the jungle.  For little as he suspected it the senior guessed the young man’s trouble and watched him sympathisingly.

One never-to-be-forgotten day as Wargrave was returning from afternoon parade Colonel Dermot called to him from his gate and showed him a telegram.  It ran:  “Tiger marked down.  Come immediately dak bungalow, Madpur Duar.  Muriel.”

As the subaltern perused it with delight the Colonel said: 

“Ask your C.O. for leave.  Then, if he gives it, get something substantial to eat in the Mess and be ready to start at once.  Madpur Duar is thirty odd miles away; and we’ll have to travel all night.  Come to my bungalow as soon as you can.”

Half an hour later the two were trudging down the road to the peelkhana carrying their rifles.  Badshah, with a howdah roped on to his pad, plodded behind them; for it is far more comfortable to walk down a steep descent than be carried down it by an elephant.  At the foot of the hills they mounted and were borne away into the gathering shadows of the long road through the forest.  As they proceeded their talk was all of tigers; for in India, though there be bigger and more splendid game in the land, its traditional animal never fails to interest, and to Wargrave on his way to his first tiger-shoot all other topics were insignificant.