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She was not. In an instant she realised this, and wonder rather than fear possessed her.

There, squatting on his haunches, not ten paces from her, was the old snake-charmer. His basket was by his side; his chuddah drooped low over his face; he sat quite motionless, save for a certain palsied quivering, which she had observed before. He looked as if he had been in that place and attitude for many years.

Beryl leaned her head upon her hand and closed her eyes. She was feeling spent and sick. He did not inspire her with horror, this old man. She was conscious of a faint sensation of disgust, that was all.

A few seconds later she looked up again, wondering afresh whither her escort could have betaken himself. It seemed to her that the distance between herself and the old native had dwindled somewhat, but she did not bestow much attention upon him. She merely noted how fiercely the sun beat down upon his shrouded head, and wondered how he managed to endure it.

The next time she opened her eyes, there were scarcely three yards between them. The instant her look fell upon him he began to speak in a thin, wiry voice of great humility.

“Let the gracious lady pardon her servant,” he said, in perfect English. “He would not harm a hair of her head.”

She raised herself to an upright position with an effort. Very curiously she did not feel in the least afraid. By an abrupt intuition, wholly inexplicable, she knew that the man had something to tell her.

“What is it?” she said.

He cringed before her.

“Let my gracious lady have patience. It is no boon that her servant would desire of her. He would only speak a word of warning in the mem-sahib’s ear.”

Beryl had begun to give him her full attention. She had a feeling that she had seen the man somewhere before, but where and under what circumstances she could not recall. It was no moment for retrospection and the phantom eluded her.

“What is it?” she said again, studying him with knitted brows.

He bowed himself before her till he appeared to be no more than a bundle of dirty linen.

“Let the gracious lady be warned by her servant,” he said. “Fletcher sahib is a man of evil heart.”

Beryl’s eyes widened. Assuredly this was the last thing she had expected to hear from such a source.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

He grovelled before her, his head almost in the dust.

“Mem-sahib he has gone for water, but he will soon return. And he will lie to the gracious lady, and tell her that the shaft of the carriage is broken so that he cannot take her back. But it is not so, most gracious. The shaft is cracked, indeed, but it is not beyond repair. Moreover, it was cracked by the saice at his master’s bidding, while the mem-sahib was at the fair.”

He paused; but Beryl said nothing. She was listening to the whole story in speechless, unfeigned astonishment.

“Also,” her informant proceeded, “the sahib’s mare was frightened, not by an accident, but by a trick. It was the sahib’s will that she should run away. And he chose this road so that he might be far from habitation, well knowing that for every mile on the lower road there are two miles to be travelled on this. Mem-sahib, your servant has spoken, and he prays you to beware. There is danger in your path.”

“But–but,” gasped Beryl, “how do you know all this? What makes you tell me? You can’t know what you are saying!”

She was thoroughly frightened by this time, and heat and faintness were alike forgotten. Incredible as was the story to which she had listened, there was about it a vividness that made it terrifying.

“But I don’t understand,” she said helplessly, as the snake-charmer remained silent to her questions. “It is not possible! It could not be!”

He lifted his head a little and, from the depths of the chuddah, she knew that piercing eyes surveyed her.