“Rao, you had better return to Calcutta.  What I have to do must be done alone.”

“Very good.  But I shall remain here till the Mem-sahib returns.”  Rao salaamed.

“And if I should not return?” affected by this strange loyalty.

“Then I shall seek Bruce Sahib, who has a camp twenty miles east.”

“Bruce?  But he is in Singapore!”—­a quickening of her pulses.

“Who can say where Bruce Sahib is?  He is like a shadow, there to-day, here to-morrow.  I have been his servant, Mem-sahib, and that is how I am to-day yours.  I received a telegram to call at your hotel and apply to you for service.  Very good.  I shall wait.  The mahout here will take you directly to Hare Sahib’s bungalow.  You will find your father’s servants there, and all will be well.  A week, then.  If you do not send for me I seek Bruce Sahib, and we shall return with many.  Some will speak English at the bungalow.”

“Thank you, Rao.  I shall not forget.”

“Neither will Bruce Sahib,” mysteriously.  Rao salaamed.

Kathlyn got into the howdah and passed through the gates.  Bruce Sahib, the quiet man whose hand had reached out over seas thus strangely to reassure her!  A hardness came into her throat and she swallowed desperately.  She was only twenty-four.  Except for herself there might not be a white person in all this sprawling, rugged principality.  From time to time the new mahout turned and smiled at her curiously, but she was too absorbed to note his attentions.

Durga Ram, called lightly Umballa, went directly to the palace, where he knew the Council of Three solemnly awaited his arrival.  He dashed up the imposing flight of marble steps, exultant.  He had fulfilled his promise; the golden daughter of Hare Sahib was but a few miles away.  The soldiers, guarding the entrance, presented their arms respectfully; but instantly after Umballa disappeared the expression on their faces was not pleasing.

Umballa hurried along through the deep corridor, supported by exquisitely carved marble columns.  Beauty in stone was in evidence everywhere and magnificent brass lamps hung from the ceiling.  There was a shrine topped by an idol in black marble, incrusted with sapphires and turquoises.  Durga Ram, who shall be called Umballa, nodded slightly as he passed it.  Force of habit, since in his heart there was only one religion—­self.

He stopped at a door guarded by a single soldier, who saluted but spat as soon as Umballa had passed into the throne room.  The throne itself was vacant.  The Council of Three rose at the approach of Umballa.

“She is here,” he said haughtily.

The council salaamed.

Umballa stroked his chin as he gazed at the huge candles flickering at each side of the throne.  He sniffed the Tibetan incense, and shrugged.  It was written.  “Go,” he said, “to Hare Sahib’s bungalow and await me.  I shall be there presently.  There is plenty of time.  And remember our four heads depend upon the next few hours.  The soldiers are on the verge of mutiny, and only success can pacify them.”