The War was over—­virtually over.  From the Vosges to the sea, not the crack of a rifle nor the moan of a shell; only an abrupt, dramatic silence—­the end!  Belief in the utter cessation of all that wonderful and terrible activity, penetrated slowly.  And as it penetrated Roy realised, with something like dismay, that the right and natural sense of elation simply was not.  He actually felt depressed.  Shrink as he might from the jar of conflict, the sure instinct of a soldier race warned him that hell holds no fury and earth no danger like a ruthless enemy not decisively smitten.  The psychology of it was beyond him—­shrouded in mystery.

Not till long afterwards did he know how many, in England and Prance, had shared his bewildered feeling; how British soldiers in Belgium had cried like children, had raged almost to the point of mutiny.  But one thing he knew—­steeped as he was in the sub-strata of Eastern thought and feeling.  India would never understand.  Visible, spectacular victory, alone could impress the East:  and such an impression might have counteracted many mistakes that had gone before....

Tuesday brought no Dyan; only a scrawled note:  “Sorry—­too much business.  Can’t come just now.” If one could take that at its face value——!  But it might mean anything.  Had Chandranath found out—­and had Dyan not the moral courage to go his own way?

He knew by now where his cousin lodged; but had never been there.  It was in one of the oldest parts of the city; alive with political intrigue.  If Roy’s nationality were suspected, ‘things’ might happen, and it was clearly unfair on his father to run needless risks.  But this was different.  ‘Things’ might be happening to Dyan.

So, after nearly a week of maddening suspense, he resolved—­with all due caution—­to take his chance.

* * * * *

A silvery twilight was ebbing from the sky when he plunged into a maze of narrow streets and by-lanes where the stream of Eastern life flows along immemorial channels scarcely stirred by surface eddies of ‘advance.’

Threading his way through the crowd, he found the street and the landmark he sought:  a doorway, adorned with a faded wreath of marigolds, indication of some holy presence within; and just beyond it, a low-browed arch, almost a tunnel.  It passed under balconied houses toppling perilously forward; and as Roy entered it, a figure darkened the other end.  He could only distinguish the long dark coat and turbaned head:  but there flashed instant conviction—­Chandranath!

Alert, rather than alarmed, he hurried forward, hugging the opposite wall.  At the darkest point they crossed.  Roy felt the other pause, scrutinise him—­and pass on.  The relief of it!  And the ignominy of suddenly feeling the old childish terror, when you had turned your back on a dark room.  It was all he could do not to break into a run....

In the open court, set round with tottering houses, a sacred neem tree made a vast patch of shadow.  Near it, a rickety staircase led up to Dyan’s roof room.  Roy, mounting cautiously, knocked at the highest door.