mi next morning at daybreak and give
them my message. If I can't come myself I'll find a way to send word;
but if you don't hear from me it will be fairly serious, for it will
mean that the rising is a formidable thing after all. And that, of
course, will mean trouble for everybody all round. In that case you'd
better do what St. John and Mitchinson tell you. You're sure to be
wanted."

George's face cleared. "That sounds rather sport. I'd better bring up
the servants. They might turn out useful. And I suppose I'll bring a
couple of rifles for you, in case it's all a fraud and we want to go
shooting. I thought the place was going to be stale, but it promises
pretty well now." And he studied the plan on his shirt cuff. Then an
idea came to him.

"Suppose you find no rising. That will mean that Marker's letter was a
blind of some sort. He wanted to get you out of the way or something.
What will you do then? Come back here?"

"N--o," said Lewis hesitatingly. "I think Thwaite is good enough, and I
should be no manner of use. You and I will wait up there in the hills
on the off-chance of picking up some news. I swear I won't come back
here to hang about and try and discover things. It's enough to drive a
man crazy."

"It is rather a ghastly place. Wonder how the Logans thrive here. Odd
mixture this. Strauss and hill tribes not twenty miles apart."

Lewis laughed. "I think I prefer the hill tribes. I am not in the
humour for Strauss just now. I shall have to be off in an hour, so I am
going to change. See you to-morrow, old man."

George retired to the ballroom, where he had to endure the reproaches of
Mrs. Logan. He was an abstracted and silent partner, and in the
intervals of dancing he studied his cuff. Miss A talked to him of polo,
and Miss B of home; Miss C discovered that they had common friends, and
Miss D that she had known his sister. Miss E, who was more observant,
saw the cause of his distraction and asked, "What queer hieroglyphics
have you got on your cuff, Mr. Winterham?"

George looked down in a bewildered way at his sleeve. "Where on earth
have I been?" he asked in wonder. "That's the worst of being an
absent-minded fellow. I've been scribbling on my cuff with my programme
pencil."

Soon he escaped, and made his way down to the garden gate, where Thwaite
was standing smoking. A _sais_ held a saddled pony by the road-side.
Lewis, in rough shooting clothes, was preparing to mount. From indoors
came th