her dance at Nana Sahib's
and I've heard Ajeet's statement. I don't know anything evil of the
girl, and I don't believe it."

"A man's sense of honour where a woman is concerned--lie to protect
her. I have no illusions about the Sahibs in India," she continued, in
a tone that was devilish in its cynicism, "but I did think that a
British officer would put his duty to his King above the shielding of a
_nautch_ girl."

"Elizabeth!" Hodson rose and put a hand upon the girl's arm; "do you
realise that you are doing a dreadful thing--that you are impeaching
Captain Barlow's honour as a soldier?"

Barlow's face was white, and Hodson was trembling, but the girl stood,
a merciless cold triumph in her face: "I do realise that, father. For
the girl I care nothing, nor for Captain Barlow's intrigue with such,
but I am the daughter of the man who represents the British Raj here."

Barlow, knowing the full deviltry of this high protestation, knowing
that Elizabeth, imperious, dominating, cold-blooded, was knifing a
supposed rival--a rival not in love, for he fancied Elizabeth was
incapable of love--felt a surge of indignation.

"For God's sake, Elizabeth, what impossible thing has led you to
believe that Captain Barlow has anything to do with this girl?" the
father asked.

"I'll tell you; the matter is too grave for me to remain silent. This
morning I rode early--earlier than usual, for I wanted to pick up the
Captain before he had started. As I turned my mount in to his compound
I saw, coming from the back of the bungalow, this native woman, and she
was being taken away by his _chowkidar_. She had just come out some
back door of the bungalow, for from the drive I could see the open
space that lay between the bungalow and the servants' quarters."

Hodson dropped a hand to the teak-wood desk; it looked inadequate,
thin, bloodless; blue veins mapped its white back. "You are mistaken,
Elizabeth, I'm sure. Some other girl--"

"No, father, I was not mistaken. There are not many native girls like
the Gulab, I'll admit. As she turned a clump of crotons she saw me
sitting my horse and drew a gauze scarf across her face to hide it. I
waited, and asked the _chowkidar_ if it were his daughter, and the old
fool said it was the wife of his son; and the girl that he claimed was
his son's wife had the iron bracelet of a Hindu widow on her arm. And
the Gulab wears one--I saw it the night she danced."

A ghastly hush fell upo