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‘And do you mean that your friend was literally buried alive?’ asked Lyon, in some suspense.

Colonel Capadose looked at him a moment, as if he had already lost the thread of the conversation. Then his face brightened–and when it brightened it was doubly handsome. ‘Upon my soul he was chucked into the ground!’

‘And was he left there?’

‘He was left there till I came and hauled him out.’

‘You came?’

‘I dreamed about him–it’s the most extraordinary story: I heard him calling to me in the night. I took upon myself to dig him up. You know there are people in India–a kind of beastly race, the ghouls–who violate graves. I had a sort of presentiment that they would get at him first. I rode straight, I can tell you; and, by Jove, a couple of them had just broken ground! Crack–crack, from a couple of barrels, and they showed me their heels, as you may believe. Would you credit that I took him out myself? The air brought him to and he was none the worse. He has got his pension–he came home the other day; he would do anything for me.’

‘He called to you in the night?’ said Lyon, much startled.

‘That’s the interesting point. Now what was it? It wasn’t his ghost, because he wasn’t dead. It wasn’t himself, because he couldn’t. It was something or other! You see India’s a strange country–there’s an element of the mysterious: the air is full of things you can’t explain.’

They passed out of the dining-room, and Colonel Capadose, who went among the first, was separated from Lyon; but a minute later, before they reached the drawing-room, he joined him again. ‘Ashmore tells me who you are. Of course I have often heard of you–I’m very glad to make your acquaintance; my wife used to know you.’

‘I’m glad she remembers me. I recognised her at dinner and I was afraid she didn’t.’

‘Ah, I daresay she was ashamed,’ said the Colonel, with indulgent humour.

‘Ashamed of me?’ Lyon replied, in the same key.

‘Wasn’t there something about a picture? Yes; you painted her portrait.’

‘Many times,’ said the artist; ‘and she may very well have been ashamed of what I made of her.’

‘Well, I wasn’t, my dear sir; it was the sight of that picture, which you were so good as to present to her, that made me first fall in love with her.’

‘Do you mean that one with the children–cutting bread and butter?’

‘Bread and butter? Bless me, no–vine leaves and a leopard skin–a kind of Bacchante.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Lyon; ‘I remember. It was the first decent portrait I painted. I should be curious to see it to-day.’

‘Don’t ask her to show it to you–she’ll be mortified!’ the Colonel exclaimed.

‘Mortified?’

‘We parted with it–in the most disinterested manner,’ he laughed. ‘An old friend of my wife’s–her family had known him intimately when they lived in Germany–took the most extraordinary fancy to it: the Grand Duke of Silberstadt-Schreckenstein, don’t you know? He came out to Bombay while we were there and he spotted your picture (you know he’s one of the greatest collectors in Europe), and made such eyes at it that, upon my word–it happened to be his birthday–she told him he might have it, to get rid of him. He was perfectly enchanted–but we miss the picture.’

‘It is very good of you,’ Lyon said. ‘If it’s in a great collection–a work of my incompetent youth–I am infinitely honoured.’

‘Oh, he has got it in one of his castles; I don’t know which–you know he has so many. He sent us, before he left India–to return the compliment–a magnificent old vase.’

‘That was more than the thing was worth,’ Lyon remarked.

Colonel Capadose gave no heed to this observation; he seemed to be thinking of something. After a moment he said, ‘If you’ll come and see us in town she’ll show you the vase.’ And as they passed into the drawing-room he gave the artist a friendly propulsion. ‘Go and speak to her; there she is–she’ll be delighted.’