Border, began to show signs of restlessness. The
Political Officer's strong personality and the reputation of divinity
that he enjoyed had kept them in check. But now that he was gone they
thought that they could defy with impunity the young sahib who replaced
him.

So the Assistant had not long to wait for an opportunity to show his
mettle. Dermot had not been gone a fortnight before one or two raids
were attempted on British villages by lawless mountaineers from across
the Bhutan frontier. Wargrave soon proved that the mantle of Colonel
Dermot had not fallen on unworthy shoulders. Single-handed he
intercepted and faced a party of Bhutanese swordsmen swooping down from
the hills on a tea-garden in search of loot, shot the leader and two of
his followers and put the rest to flight. With a handful of sepoys of
the Military Police he surprised a Bhuttia village in the No Man's Land
along the border-line and captured a notorious outlaw who had plundered
in Indian territory and had sent him a defiant challenge.

Wargrave was glad of the excitement and the occupation, for they kept
him from brooding over his troubles and worrying about the future. He
had not time to puzzle over Violet's silence. She had not written to him
since their parting. As a matter of fact she seldom thought of him, so
engrossed was she in the pursuit of pleasure. Admittedly the prettiest
woman in Darjeeling that season she received enough attention and
admiration to turn any woman's head; and she enjoyed it all to the full.
Although she had answered Rosenthal's letter from Bangalore he had not
written again; but she felt that he was not forgetting her. She thought
oftener of him than of Wargrave; for the vision of the great riches that
she might one day share with him fascinated her. It haunted her dreams
sleeping and waking. Often she let her fancy stray to the existence that
he had promised would be hers when he was the possessor of his father's
fortune, a life of luxury in the gayest cities of the world with all
that immense wealth could bestow, a life infinitely better worth living
than her present one. Would she ever be given the chance of it?

The question was speedily and unexpectedly answered. One morning after
breakfast she received a telegram from Rosenthal. It said:

"My father is dead. I sail from Bombay for South Africa on Friday to
settle up his affairs. Will you come?"

She stared at the paper almost uncomprehendingly for a