has captured the man himself.
I can see him trampling on any one who opposed him, and suffering in the
same cold secret way. It ought to be authentic if it isn't. Don't you
know any more?"

"Nothing. Well--to bed, and tomorrow I'll see Rup Singh."

I was glad when he returned with the permission. I was to be very
careful, he said, to make no allusion to the lost palace, for two women
were staying at the House in the Woods--a mother and daughter to whom
Rup Singh had granted hospitality because of an obligation he must
honor. But with true Oriental distrust of women he had thought fit to
make no confidence to them. I promised and asked Olesen if he knew them.

"Slightly. Canadians of Danish blood like my own. Their name is Ingmar.
Some people think the daughter good-looking. The mother is supposed
to be clever; keen on occult subjects which she came back to India to
study. The husband was a great naturalist and the kindest of men. He
almost lived in the jungle and the natives had all sorts of rumours
about his powers. You know what they are. They said the birds and beasts
followed him about. Any old thing starts a legend."

"What was the connection with Rup Singh?"

"He was in difficulties and undeservedly, and Ingmar generously lent
him money at a critical time, trusting to his honour for repayment. Like
most Orientals he never forgets a good turn and would do anything for
any of the family--except trust the women with any secret he valued. The
father is long dead. By the way Rup Singh gave me a queer message for
you. He said; 'Tell the Sahib these words--"Let him who finds water in
the desert share his cup with him who dies of thirst." He is certainly
getting very old. I don't suppose he knew himself what he meant."

I certainly did not. However my way was thus smoothed for me and I took
the upward road, leaving Olesen to the long ungrateful toil of the man
who devotes his life to India without sufficient time or knowledge to
make his way to the inner chambers of her beauty. There is no harder
mistress unless you hold the pass-key to her mysteries, there is none of
whom so little can be told in words but who kindles so deep a passion.
Necessity sometimes takes me from that enchanted land, but when the
latest dawns are shining in my skies I shall make my feeble way back to
her and die at her worshipped feet. So I went up from Kalka.

I have never liked Simla. It is beautiful enough--eight thousand feet
up in the