“Well, sir, I—­perhaps you won’t want me under you—­and Mrs. Dermot—­you mightn’t wish me to——­,” stammered the subaltern, standing miserably before him.

“Oh, yes; you’ll make a good political officer none the less,” said the Colonel smiling.  “And you need not be afraid of my wife turning away from you with horror.  If she can be a friend to the lady she will.  As for you, well, you saved our children, Wargrave”—­he laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder—­“you are our friend for life.  I shall not repeat your story to my wife.  Perhaps some day you may like to tell it to her yourself.”

Wargrave tried to thank him gratefully, but failed, and, picking up his hat, went out into the rain.

That was days ago; and no answer had come from Violet, so that the subaltern lived in a state of strain and anxious expectation.  Indeed, some weeks had passed since her last letter, as usual an unhappy one; and, sitting staring out into the grey world of falling rain turned to flame every minute by the vivid lightning, he racked his brains to guess the reason of her silence.

A jangle of bells sounded through the storm.  Glancing out Wargrave saw a curiously grotesque figure climb the verandah steps from the garden and stand shaking itself while the water poured from it.  It was an almost naked man, squat and sturdy-limbed, with glistening wet brown skin, an oilskin-covered package on his back, a short spear hung with bells in his hand.  It was the postman.  For a miserable pittance he jogged up and down the mountains in fine weather or foul, carrying His Majesty’s Mails, passing fearlessly through the jungle in peril of wild beats, his ridiculous weapon, the bells of which were supposed to frighten tigers, his only protection.

Wargrave opened the door and went out to him.  The man grinned, unslung and opened his parcel.  From it he took out a bundle of letters, handed them to the subaltern, and went on to knock at Burke’s door with his correspondence.  Frank returned to his room with the mail which contained the official letters for the detachment, of which he was still acting as adjutant.  He threw them aside when he saw an envelope with Violet’s handwriting on it.  He tore it open eagerly.

To his surprise the letter was addressed from a hotel in Poona, the large and gay military and civil station in the West of India, a few hours’ rail journey inland from Bombay.  He skimmed through it rapidly.

She wrote that, utterly weary of the dullness of Rohar, she had gone to Poona to spend part of the festive and fashionable season there and was now revelling in the many dances, dinners, theatricals and other gaieties of the lively station.  Everybody was very kind to her, especially the men.  She was invited to the private entertainments at Government House, and His Excellency the Governor always danced with her.  Her programme was crowded at every ball; and she had been asked to take one of the leading