After dinner that night the colonel went the rounds, as was his habit nightly.  By and by he returned to the bungalow, but did not enter.  He filled his cutty and walked to and fro in the moonlight, with his head bent and his hands clasped behind his back.  There was a restlessness in his stride not unlike that of the captive beasts in the cages near by.  Occasionally he paused at the clink clink of the elephant irons or at the “whuff” as the uneasy pachyderm poured dust on his head.

Bah!  It was madness.  A parchment in Hindustani, given jestingly or ironically by a humorous old chap in orders and white linen and rhinoceros sandals. . . .  A throne!  Pshaw!  It was bally nonsense.  As if a white man could rule over a brown one by the choice of the latter!  And yet, that man Umballa’s face, when he had shown the king the portraits of his two lovely daughters!  He would send Ahmed.  Ahmed knew the business as well as he did.  He would send his abdication to the council, giving them the right to choose his successor.  He himself would remain home with the girls.  Then he gazed up at the moon and smiled grimly.

“Hukum hai!” he murmured in Hindustani.  “It is the orders.  I’ve simply got to go.  When I recall those rubies and emeralds and pearls. . . .  Well, it’s not cupidity for myself.  It’s for the girls.  Besides; there’s the call, the adventure.  I’ve simply got to go.  I can’t escape it.  I must be always on the go . . . since she died.”

A few days later he stood again before the desk in the living-room.  He was dressed for travel.  He sat down and penned a note.  From the box which contained the order he extracted a large envelope heavily sealed.  This he balanced in his hand for a moment, frowned, laughed, and swore softly.  He would abdicate, but at a snug profit.  Why not? . . .  He was an old fool.  Into a still larger envelope he put the sealed envelope and his own note, then wrote upon it.  He was blotting it as his daughters entered.

“Come here, my pretty cubs.”  He held out the envelope.  “I want you, Kit, to open this on December thirty-first, at midnight.  Girls like mysteries, and if you opened it any time but midnight it wouldn’t be mysterious.  Indeed, I shall probably have you both on the arms of my chair when you open it.”

“Is it about the medal?” demanded Winnie.

“By George, Kit, the child is beginning to reason out things,” he jested.

Winnie laughed, and so did Kathlyn, but she did so because occultly she felt that her father expected her to laugh.  She was positively uncanny sometimes in her perspicacity.

“On December thirty-first, at midnight,” she repeated.  “All right, father.  You must write to us at least once every fortnight.”

“I’ll cable from Singapore, from Ceylon, and write a long letter from Allaha.  Come on.  We must be off.  Ahmed is waiting.”