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“That’s what I don’t know, sir.” Feverishly Merryon made answer. “I left her last night.

She was well then. But since–I sent down an orderly over an hour ago. He’s not come back.”

“Confound it!” said the colonel, testily. “You’d better go yourself.”

Merryon glanced swiftly round.

“Yes, go, go!” the colonel reiterated, irritably. “I’ll relieve you for a spell. Go and satisfy yourself–and me! None but an infernal fool would have kept her here,” he added, in a growling undertone, as Merryon lifted a hand in brief salute and started away through the sodden mists.

He went as he had never gone in his life before, and as he went the mists parted before him and a blinding ray of sunshine came smiting through the gap like the sword of the destroyer. The simile rushed through his mind and out again, even as the grey mist-curtain closed once more.

He reached the bungalow. It stood like a shrouded ghost, and the drip, drip, drip of the rain on the veranda came to him like a death-knell.

A gaunt figure met him almost on the threshold, and he recognized his messenger with a sharp sense of coming disaster. The man stood mutely at the salute.

“Well? Well? Speak!” he ordered, nearly beside himself with anxiety. “Why didn’t you come back with an answer?”

The man spoke with deep submission. “Sahib, there was no answer.”

“What do you mean by that? What the–

Here, let me pass!” cried Merryon, in a ferment. “There must have been–some sort of answer.”

“No, sahib. No answer.” The man spoke with inscrutable composure. “The mem-sahib has not come back,” he said. “Let the sahib see for himself.”

But Merryon had already burst into the bungalow; so he resumed his patient watch on the veranda, wholly undisturbed, supremely patient.

The khitmutgar came forward at his master’s noisy entrance. There was a trace–just the shadow of a suggestion–of anxiety on his dignified face under the snow-white turban. He presented him with a note on a salver with a few murmured words and a deep salaam.

“For the sahib’s hands alone,” he said.

Merryon snatched up the note and opened it with shaking hands.

It was very brief, pathetically so, and as he read a great emptiness seemed to spread and spread around him in an ever-widening desolation.

“Good-bye, my Billikins!” Ah, the pitiful, childish scrawl she had made of it! “I’ve come to my senses, and I’ve gone back to him. I’m not worthy of any sacrifice of yours, dear. And it would have been a big sacrifice. You wouldn’t like being dragged through the mud, but I’m used to it. It came to me just that moment that you said, ‘Yes, of course,’ when Mr. Harley came to call you back to duty. Duty is better than a worthless woman, my Billikins, and I was never fit to be anything more than a toy to you–a toy to play with and toss aside. And so good-bye, good-bye!”

The scrawl ended with a little cross at the bottom of the page. He looked up from it with eyes gone blind with pain and a stunned and awful sense of loss.

“When did the mem-sahib go?” he questioned, dully.

The khitmutgar bent his stately person. “The mem-sahib went in haste,” he said, “an hour before midnight. Your servant followed her to the dak-bungalow to protect her from budmashes, but she dismissed me ere she entered in. Sahib, I could do no more.”

The man’s eyes appealed for one instant, but fell the next before the dumb despair that looked out of his master’s.

There fell a terrible silence–a pause, as it were, of suspended vitality, while the iron bit deeper and deeper into tissues too numbed to feel.

Then, “Fetch me a drink!” said Merryon, curtly. “I must be getting back to duty.”

And with soundless promptitude the man withdrew, thankful to make his escape.

CHAPTER XI

THE SACRED FIRE

“Well? Is she all right?” Almost angrily the colonel flung the question as his second-in-command came back heavy-footed through the rain. He had been through a nasty period of suspense himself during Merryon’s absence.