ed her stockings. It seemed a shame, though, to take
them home again when she could get plenty more next summer, so she left
them in the bungalow linen cupboard. They reproduced her atmosphere;
therefore did Peter dream of Jan.

A fortnight passed, and on their way to catch the homeward mail came
Thomas Crosbie and his wife from Dariawarpur to stay the night. Next
morning at breakfast Mrs. Crosbie, young, pretty and enthusiastic,
expatiated on the comfort of her room, finally exclaiming: "And how,
Mr. Ledgard, do you manage to have your sheets so deliciously scented
with lavender--d'you get it sent out from home every year?"

"Lavender?" Peter repeated. "I've got no lavender. My people never sent
me any, and I've certainly never come across any in India."

"But I'm convinced everything smelt of lavender. It made me think of
home so. If I hadn't been just going I'd have been too homesick for
words. I'm certain of it. Think! You must have got some from somewhere
and forgotten it."

Peter shook his head. "I've never noticed it myself--you really must be
mistaken. What would I be doing with lavender?"

"It was there all the same," Mrs. Crosbie continued. "I'm certain of it.
You must have got some from somewhere. Do find out--I'm sure I'm not
wrong. Ask your boy."

Peter said something to Lalkhan, who explained volubly. Tom Crosbie
grinned; he understood even fluent Hindustani. His wife did not. Peter
looked a little uncomfortable. Lalkhan salaamed and left the room.

"Well?" Mrs. Crosbie asked.

"It seems," Peter said slowly, "there _is_ something among the sheets.
I've sent Lalkhan to get it."

Lalkhan returned, bearing a salver, and laid on the salver was one of
Jan's lavender bags. He presented it solemnly to his master, who with
almost equal solemnity handed it to Mrs. Crosbie.

"There!" she said. "Of course I knew I couldn't be mistaken. Now where
did you get it?"

"It was, I suppose, put among the things when poor Mrs. Tancred had the
flat. I never noticed, of course--it's such an unobtrusive sort of
smell...."

"Hadn't she a sister?" Mrs. Crosbie asked, curiously, holding the little
sachet against her soft cheek and looking very hard at Peter.

"She had. It was she who took the children home, you know."

"Older or younger than Mrs. Tancred?"

"Older."

"How much older?"

"I really don't know," said the mendacious Peter.

"Was she awfully pretty, too?"

"Again, I really don't know. I never tho