Nothing would please her save a canter round Jakko.  With my nerves still unstrung from the previous night I feebly protested against the notion, suggesting Observatory Hill, Jutogh, the Boileaugunge road—­anything rather than the Jakko round.  Kitty was angry and a little hurt, so I yielded from fear of provoking further misunderstanding, and we set out together towards Chota Simla.  We walked a greater part of the way, and, according to our custom, cantered from a mile or so below the Convent to the stretch of level road by the Sanjowlie Reservoir.  The wretched horses appeared to fly, and my heart beat quicker and quicker as we neared the crest of the ascent.  My mind had been full of Mrs. Wessington all the afternoon; and every inch of the Jakko road bore witness to our old-time walks and talks.  The boulders were full of it; the pines sang it aloud overhead; the rain-fed torrents giggled and chuckled unseen over the shameful story; and the wind in my ears chanted the iniquity aloud.

As a fitting climax, in the middle of the level men call the Ladies’ Mile, the Horror was awaiting me.  No other ’rickshaw was in sight—­only the four black and white jhampanies, the yellow-paneled carriage, and the golden head of the woman within—­all apparently just as I had left them eight months and one fortnight ago!  For an instant I fancied that Kitty must see what I saw—­we were so marvelously sympathetic in all things.  Her next words undeceived me—­“Not a soul in sight!  Come along, Jack, and I’ll race you to the Reservoir buildings!” Her wiry little Arab was off like a bird, my Waler following close behind, and in this order we dashed under the cliffs.  Half a minute brought us within fifty yards of the ’rickshaw.  I pulled my Waler and fell back a little.  The ’rickshaw was directly in the middle of the road:  and once more the Arab passed through it, my horse following.  “Jack, Jack, dear! Please forgive me,” rang with a wail in my ears, and, after an interval:  “It’s all a mistake, a hideous mistake!”

I spurred my horse like a man possessed.  When I turned my head at the Reservoir works the black and white liveries were still waiting—­patiently waiting—­under the gray hillside, and the wind brought me a mocking echo of the words I had just heard.  Kitty bantered me a good deal on my silence throughout the remainder of the ride.  I had been talking up till then wildly and at random.  To save my life I could not speak afterwards naturally, and from Sanjowlie to the Church wisely held my tongue.

I was to dine with the Mannerings that night and had barely time to canter home to dress.  On the road to Elysium Hill I overheard two men talking together in the dusk—­“It’s a curious thing,” said one, “how completely all trace of it disappeared.  You know my wife was insanely fond of the woman (never could see anything in her myself) and wanted me to pick up her old ’rickshaw and coolies if they were to be got for love or money.