rticularly persistent bleat, such as even a
partially deaf tiger might be reasonably expected to hear on a still
night, was tethered at the correct distance. With an accurately sighted
rifle and a thumbnail pack of patience cards the sportswoman awaited
the coming of the quarry.

"I suppose we are in some danger?" said Miss Mebbin.

She was not actually nervous about the wild beast, but she had a morbid
dread of performing an atom more service than she had been paid for.

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Packletide; "it's a very old tiger. It couldn't
spring up here even if it wanted to."

"If it's an old tiger I think you ought to get it cheaper. A thousand
rupees is a lot of money."

Louisa Mebbin adopted a protective elder-sister attitude towards money
in general, irrespective of nationality or denomination. Her energetic
intervention had saved many a rouble from dissipating itself in tips in
some Moscow hotel, and francs and centimes clung to her instinctively
under circumstances which would have driven them headlong from less
sympathetic hands. Her speculations as to the market depreciation of
tiger remnants were cut short by the appearance on the scene of the
animal itself. As soon as it caught sight of the tethered goat it lay
flat on the earth, seemingly less from a desire to take advantage of
all available cover than for the purpose of snatching a short rest
before commencing the grand attack.

"I believe it's ill," said Louisa Mebbin, loudly in Hindustani, for the
benefit of the village headman, who was in ambush in a neighbouring
tree.

"Hush!" said Mrs. Packletide, and at that moment the tiger commenced
ambling towards his victim.

"Now, now!" urged Miss Mebbin with some excitement; "if he doesn't
touch the goat we needn't pay for it." (The bait was an extra.)

The rifle flashed out with a loud report, and the great tawny beast
sprang to one side and then rolled over in the stillness of death. In
a moment a crowd of excited natives had swarmed on to the scene, and
their shouting speedily carried the glad news to the village, where a
thumping of tom-toms took up the chorus of triumph. And their triumph
and rejoicing found a ready echo in the heart of Mrs. Packletide;
already that luncheon-party in Curzon Street seemed immeasurably nearer.

It was Louisa Mebbin who drew attention to the fact that the goat was
in death-throes from a mortal bullet-wound, while no trace of the
rifle's deadly work could be