ll be as though you had never
tasted the drink that is both fire and water."

He went away to the dressing-table, shook some pink powder out of a
little bottle into a glass, and came back to the bedside with the glass
in one hand and the water-bottle in the other. Then he poured the water
on to the powder and said:

"Drink, sahib, and sleep! When you wake you will be well."

The water seemed to turn into something like pink champagne as the
powder dissolved. Vane seized the glass eagerly, and took a long,
delicious drink. He had scarcely time to hand the glass back to Koda and
thank him before his burning brain grew cool, his nerves ceased to
thrill, a delightful languor stole over him, and he sank back on the
pillow and was asleep in a moment. The Pathan looked at him half sternly
and half sorrowfully for a few moments, then he laid his brown hand upon
his brow. It was already moist and cool.

He turned away, and set to work to put the room in order and get out
Vane's clothes and clean linen for the day. Then he went downstairs and
brewed Sir Arthur's morning coffee as usual. This was always the first
of his daily tasks. When he took it up he found Sir Arthur still fully
dressed, lying on the bed, moving uneasily in his sleep.

"The follies of the young are the sorrows of the old!" he murmured. "He
has not slept all night; still, this is a sleep which rests not nor
refreshes. His coffee will do him more good, and then he can bathe and
rest."

He laid his hand lightly on Sir Arthur's shoulder. He woke at once and
drank his coffee. Then he asked how Vane was, and when he knew that he
was sleeping again, and would not wake for some hours, he got up,
undressed, and had a bath and dressed again.

Then, after a not very successful attempt at breakfast, he went out and
turned into the Hammersmith Road in the direction of Brook Green. He
remembered the address that Miss Carol had given Vane just as he
remembered every other word of the conversation. He had determined to
call upon her, and to make as sure as possible that his dreadful
suspicions were correct before he told Vane the truth.

He found No. 15, Melville Gardens, one of a row of neat little detached
houses; not much more than cottages, but cosy and comfortable-looking,
each with a tiny little plot of ground in front and behind, and with a
row of trees down each side of the road which seemed to stand in
apologetic justification of the title of gardens.

The