u need not be afraid of my wife turning away
from you with horror. If she can be a friend to the lady she will. As
for you, well, you saved our children, Wargrave"--he laid his hand on
the young man's shoulder--"you are our friend for life. I shall not
repeat your story to my wife. Perhaps some day you may like to tell it
to her yourself."

Wargrave tried to thank him gratefully, but failed, and, picking up his
hat, went out into the rain.

That was days ago; and no answer had come from Violet, so that the
subaltern lived in a state of strain and anxious expectation. Indeed,
some weeks had passed since her last letter, as usual an unhappy one;
and, sitting staring out into the grey world of falling rain turned to
flame every minute by the vivid lightning, he racked his brains to guess
the reason of her silence.

A jangle of bells sounded through the storm. Glancing out Wargrave saw
a curiously grotesque figure climb the verandah steps from the garden
and stand shaking itself while the water poured from it. It was an
almost naked man, squat and sturdy-limbed, with glistening wet brown
skin, an oilskin-covered package on his back, a short spear hung with
bells in his hand. It was the postman. For a miserable pittance he
jogged up and down the mountains in fine weather or foul, carrying His
Majesty's Mails, passing fearlessly through the jungle in peril of wild
beats, his ridiculous weapon, the bells of which were supposed to
frighten tigers, his only protection.

Wargrave opened the door and went out to him. The man grinned, unslung
and opened his parcel. From it he took out a bundle of letters, handed
them to the subaltern, and went on to knock at Burke's door with his
correspondence. Frank returned to his room with the mail which contained
the official letters for the detachment, of which he was still acting as
adjutant. He threw them aside when he saw an envelope with Violet's
handwriting on it. He tore it open eagerly.

To his surprise the letter was addressed from a hotel in Poona, the
large and gay military and civil station in the West of India, a few
hours' rail journey inland from Bombay. He skimmed through it rapidly.

She wrote that, utterly weary of the dullness of Rohar, she had gone to
Poona to spend part of the festive and fashionable season there and was
now revelling in the many dances, dinners, theatricals and other
gaieties of the lively station. Everybody was very kind to her,
especially the men