. "Dash it! I'm so winded! We
hope, you know, we hope--but it's usually a knife and good-bye with
these ruffians. Still, there's a chance--just a chance."

"But you haven't told me what has happened yet," cried Audrey, in a
fever of impatience.

He answered her, still running by her side "The Waris have got him;
rushed his camp at night and bagged everything. The coolies were in the
know, no doubt. Only his _shikari_ got away. He has just come in wounded
with the news. I'm on my way to tell the Chief, though I don't see what
good he can do."

"You mean you think he is murdered?" gasped Audrey, through white lips.

He nodded.

"Afraid so, poor beggar! Well, so long, Mrs. Tudor! We must hope for the
best as long as we can."

He put his hand to his cap, and ran on, while Audrey, with a set, white
face, was borne to her bungalow.

Her husband was sitting on the veranda. He rose as she alighted and gave
her his hand up the short flight of steps to his side.

"You are rather late," he said in his grave way. "I am afraid you will
have to hurry."

They were dining out that night, but Audrey had forgotten it. She stared
at him as if dazed.

"What is it?" he asked. "Nothing wrong?"

She gasped hysterically.

"Oh, Eustace, an awful thing--an awful thing!" she cried. "Mr. Devereux
has just told me--"

Her voice broke, and her lips formed soundless words. She groped vaguely
for support with one hand.

Tudor put his arm round her and led her, tottering, indoors.

"All right; tell me presently," he said quietly. "Sit down and keep
still for a little."

He put her into an arm-chair and left her there. In a few seconds he
returned with some brandy and water, which he held to her lips in
silence. Then, setting down the glass, he began to rub her nerveless
hands.

Audrey submitted passively at first to his ministrations, but presently
as her strength returned she sat up.

"You haven't heard?" she asked him shakily.

"I have heard nothing," he answered. "Can you tell me now?"

"Yes--yes!" She paused a moment to steady her voice. Then--"It's Phil!"
she faltered. "He has been taken prisoner--murdered perhaps--by those
dreadful hill men! Oh Eustace"--lifting her face appealingly--"do you
think they would kill him? Do you? Do you?"

But Tudor said nothing. He made no attempt to comfort her, and she
turned from him in bitter disappointment. His lack of sympathy at such a
moment was almost more than she could bear.