“Father,” she said, as she leaned against the desk, one hand on its teak-wood top, “I’ve been listening to the handsome leader of thieves; I couldn’t help hearing him.  I fancy that Captain Barlow could tell you just where this woman, the Gulab, who is as beautiful as the moon, is.  I’m sure he could bring her here—­if he would.”

The Captain’s fingers unclasped from the papers in his pocket, and now were beating a tattoo on his knee.

“Elizabeth!” the father gasped, “do you know what you are saying?” His cold grey eyes were wide with astonishment.  “Did you hear all of Ajeet Singh’s story?”

“Yes, all of it.”

“It’s your friend, Nana Sahib, whom you treat as if he were an Englishman and to be trusted, that knows where this woman is, Elizabeth.”

A cynical laugh issued from the girl’s lips that were so like her father’s in their unsympathetic contour:  “Yes, one may trust men, but a woman’s eyes are given her to prevent disaster from this trust which is so natural to the deceivable sex.”

“Elizabeth! you do not know what you are saying—­what the inference would be.”

“Ask Captain Barlow if he doesn’t know all about the Gulab’s movements.”

The Resident pushed irritably some papers on his desk, and turning in his chair, asked, “Can you explain this, Captain—­what it is all about?”

There were ripples of low temperature chilling the base of Barlow’s skull.  “I can’t explain it—­it’s beyond me,” he answered doggedly.

The girl turned upon him with ferocity.  “Don’t lie, Captain Barlow; a British officer does not lie to his superior.”

“Hush, Beth,” the father pleaded.

“Don’t you know, Captain Barlow,” the girl demanded, “that this woman, the Gulab, is one who uses her beauty to betray men, even Sahibs?”

“No, I don’t know that, Miss Hodson.  I saw her dance at Nana Sahib’s and I’ve heard Ajeet’s statement.  I don’t know anything evil of the girl, and I don’t believe it.”

“A man’s sense of honour where a woman is concerned—­lie to protect her.  I have no illusions about the Sahibs in India,” she continued, in a tone that was devilish in its cynicism, “but I did think that a British officer would put his duty to his King above the shielding of a nautch girl.”

“Elizabeth!” Hodson rose and put a hand upon the girl’s arm; “do you realise that you are doing a dreadful thing—­that you are impeaching Captain Barlow’s honour as a soldier?”

Barlow’s face was white, and Hodson was trembling, but the girl stood, a merciless cold triumph in her face:  “I do realise that, father.  For the girl I care nothing, nor for Captain Barlow’s intrigue with such, but I am the daughter of the man who represents the British Raj here.”

Barlow, knowing the full deviltry of this high protestation, knowing that Elizabeth, imperious, dominating, cold-blooded, was knifing a supposed rival—­a rival not in love, for he fancied Elizabeth was incapable of love—­felt a surge of indignation.