rest with his, and, after all, they are thousands of miles apart.  It’s not the triumph I planned, but it’s all I have!  And this is why I brought you here; that you may take back to my enemy’s family the knowledge that in death I am triumphant.  Tell them,” he said, rising to his full height, “that while the carcass of the English cur rots in a foreign land, Rama Ragobah’s bones lie mingled with those of his beautiful Lona!”—­My blood was up, and I rushed fiercely at him.  With the quickness of a cat he dodged me, spat in my face as I turned, and, with a horrible laugh, sprang headlong into the well.  Down deeper and deeper sank the laugh—­then it died away—­then a faint plash—­and all was silent.  Rama Ragobah was gone!  For fully ten minutes I stood dazed and irresolute and then returned mechanically to the house.  I at first thought of informing the authorities of the whole affair, but, when I realised how hard it would be for me to prove my innocence were I charged with Ragobah’s murder, I decided to keep the secret of the well.

I shudder when I think of Miss Darrow’s narrow escape.  Did you suspect who her assailant really was?  I wonder you have written me nothing about it, but suppose you thought it would only needlessly alarm me.  If you had known it was our friend Ragobah, you would doubtless have felt it imperative that I should know of it,—­so I conclude from your silence that you did not discover his identity.

I need not, of course, tell you, my dear Doctor, that we have reached the end of our Indian clue, and that I deem it wise, all things considered, for me to get out of India just as soon as possible.  If this letter is in any way delayed, you need not be surprised if I have the pleasure of relating its contents in person.  Remember me to Miss Darrow and tell her how sorry I am that, thus far, I have been unable to be of any real service to her.  As I shall see you so soon I need write nothing further.  Kind regards to Miss Alice. 
                                        Ever yours,
                                             George Maitland.

When I had finished reading this letter I looked up at Gwen, expecting to see that its news had depressed her.  I must confess, however, that I could not detect any such effect.  On the contrary, she seemed to be in much better spirits than when I began reading.  “According to this letter, then,” she said, addressing me somewhat excitedly, “we may—­” but she let fall her eyes and did not complete her sentence.  My sister bestowed upon her one of those glances described in the vernacular of woman as “knowing” and then said to me:  “We may expect Mr. Maitland at any time, it seems.”  “Yes,” I replied; “he will lose no time in getting here.  He undoubtedly feels much chagrined at his failure and will now be more than ever determined to see the affair through to a successful conclusion.  He is in the position of a hound that has lost its scent,