d no business in the bazaar.

If Honor Bright could have seen him then, she would have been surprised
at the look of indecision on his usually determined face. Freed from the
restraint of curious eyes watching for revelations of himself, the man's
face wore a more human expression; his peculiar half-smile of
toleration, or contempt, relaxing the lines of his stern mouth.

For a couple of furlongs he drove fast, then slowed down to a noiseless
glide as he ran past the tall cactus fence bordering the Collector's
domain. At the end of the fence where it turned at right angles dividing
the "compound" from a paddock, the engines were reversed in the narrow
lane, till the car came back to the rustic gate beyond the culvert.

It lay hospitably open in the usual way of gates in the Station, and
gave access to the grounds. There was only a momentary pause while
Dalton seemed to make sure of his intention, and the next instant he was
moving slowly up the drive between the handsome goldmohur trees of the
avenue. In the dark shadow of one of these, he shut off his engines and
stepped to the ground.

All about him, the garden was bathed in silver light, each shrub and
arbour steeped in tranquil loveliness, while footpaths gleamed white
amidst stretches of dusky lawns; the whole presenting a scene of
veritable enchantment under the soft radiance of the moon; a gentle
breeze, the while, rustling among the leaves.

In front of him lay the wide, squat bungalow with its flat roof
ornamented by a castellated balustrade of masonry, and supported by tall
pillars. The verandah was in darkness but for a hurricane hand lantern
on the top step.

He was not sure that he had the right to intrude at that late hour even
with the pretext of a semi-official inquiry ... but lights in the
drawing-room and the tones of the piano, rich and sweet, ended his
indecision. The staff of servants being reduced by their master's
requirements in camp, there was no one at hand to announce his arrival.
Even the peon, supposed to keep watch against the intrusion of toads and
snakes, had betaken himself to the servants' quarters behind the
bungalow, for his last smoke before shutting up the house for the night.

Joyce was playing Liszt's _Liebestraum_ with diligence, but no feeling.
Her execution was good, but her soul being yet unawakened, she played
without understanding, and Dalton's musical sense suffered tortures as
he listened for a few moments; then, ab