She tried to smile in answer, but her lips quivered in spite of her.  She turned her face aside, ashamed of her weakness.

Noel came up with the ballot-papers, and emptied them out upon the table without a glance at her.

“I must get you to help,” said Sir Reginald, drawing her gently forward.

“I can manage, sir,” said Noel shortly.

But the Colonel broke in, “Nonsense, Wyndham!  One scrutineer isn’t enough.”

And Noel pushed across a handful of papers to Olga without lifting his eyes.

With fingers that trembled slightly, she began to sort, assisted by Sir Reginald.  Several of the papers bore her own name, a fact which at first she scarcely noticed, but which very soon became too conspicuous to be ignored.

“I believe it’s yours,” murmured Sir Reginald at her elbow.

“Oh, impossible!” she said, flushing.

But in a very few minutes the suspicion was verified.  Noel looked up from his sorting with a brief, “You’ve won!”

Olga raised her eyes swiftly, but he instantly averted his, and turned to communicate the result to the Colonel.

The latter shook hands with her, and shouted the news in his loudest parade voice to the assembled company.  There ensued applause and congratulations that Olga would gladly have foregone.  Then, as her friends began to press round, Sir Reginald stepped forward.

“It is my proud privilege,” he said, “to present to Miss Ratcliffe in the Rajah’s name his very handsome gift.”

He took the golden key from the top of the casket and handed it with a bow to Olga.

She took it with a murmur of thanks, and stood hesitating, possessed by a very curious feeling of dread.

“Open it!” said Noel impatiently.

“Open it for her!” said Sir Reginald, divining a certain amount of nervousness as the cause of her hesitation.

Noel held out a hand for the key, and she gave it to him.  There was a sudden hush and a little thrill of expectation in the motley crowd gathered round as he turned to fit it into the lock.

The key did not fit in very easily; it seemed to meet with some obstruction.  With a frown Noel pulled it out again.  “What’s the matter with the thing?” he said irritably.

“Try it the other way up!” suggested Sir Reginald.

“I believe it’s a hoax,” said a man in the crowd.

Noel turned the key upside down amid an interested silence, and began to insert it again in the lock.

As he did so, there came a sudden cry from the background, a man’s voice shrill and warning.

“Leave the thing alone!  It’s a bomb!  I tell you, it’s a bomb!”

“What?” The crowd scattered backwards as though a thunderbolt had fallen in its midst, and a woman shrieked in panic.

A man—­wild, unkempt, ragged—­tore like a maniac over the polished floor, making for the group at the table, waving one skinny arm.