"Diagnosis difficult," said Dr. Antonio pompously professional, yet clearly puzzled and disturbed.

Stella stood with him in the big drawing-room that looked dusty and neglected in the dim lamplight, trying to gather what had happened, what was likely to happen. From across the hall came a monotonous sound, a loud, delirious voice repeating some sentence over and over again. On her arrival, soon after midnight, she had scarcely been able to realise that it was indeed Robert who lay on his bed, so strangely altered, talking incoherently, paying no heed to her presence. Mrs. Antonio was there as well as the doctor; apparently the good couple had not left the house for the past twenty-four hours.

"Is it typhoid, do you think?" Stella asked helplessly.

"No, not typhoid, some kind of poison."

"Something he had eaten?"

"How can I say? One day quite well, playing tennis, then feeling ill, sending for me; and all at once very high fever, delirious. As yet not yielding to treatment. Typhoid, smallpox, cholera, malaria," he ticked off the diseases on his fingers, "none of them. I have grave suspicion, Mrs. Crayfield!"

"You mean you think someone has tried to poison my husband?"

"Yes, that is what I think."

"But who could it be? The servants have all been with him for years——"

"That is so. But where is that bearer, that Sher Singh?"

Mystified, Stella stared at the old man. "Isn't Sher Singh here?" In all the distraction of her arrival she had not noted Sher Singh's absence, had not thought of him.

"Not here! He has——" Dr. Antonio paused as though searching for a word, "he has bunked."

"But surely——"

He shrugged his shoulders, spread out his hands. "Afim-wallah, you know!" he said significantly.

"Afim-wallah?"

"Yes, opium-eater."

"I don't understand. Dr. Antonio, do speak plainly. Is it your opinion that Sher Singh has been trying to poison my husband? But Sher Singh was so devoted to him!"

"That is just it. Jealousy, and you coming as bride, and the woman, his relation, sent away. Now, brain upset with opium, and you coming back again soon."

"Sher Singh's relation? What relation?" She thought impatiently that the old doctor's imagination had run away with him; then, from the back of her mind, called up by the mention of opium in conjunction with Sher Singh, came the recollection of all Mrs. Antonio had said that hot afternoon long ago in her stuffy, hookah-smelling drawing-room. She visualised the untidy form clad in a grotesque dressing-gown; the bath towel tied over the grey hair, the mysterious nods, and: "Knowing too many secrets!" What was behind it all? The idea that Sher Singh had tried to poison Robert seemed to her too melodramatic and impossible to be accepted, whatever his provocation or mental condition; yet, according to Dr. Antonio, Sher Singh had disappeared, "bunked!" Why?

"What relation?" she repeated.

Dr. Antonio puffed, and fidgeted his feet. "Oh, no use going over old stories. All done with," he said evasively. "Only, putting two and two together, it is my suspicion that Sher Singh has done harm. But these things are not easy to bring home; at present we have just to think of curing."

He took out a large gold watch, for the clock in the room had stopped. "Will you rest now, Mrs. Crayfield? Not much change likely just yet. My wife, she must go home and get sleep, but I will remain."

"I am not tired," declared Stella, though she ached all over after the long journey. "It is you who ought to rest," and indeed the old man's fatigue was patent. "Let me sit with my husband while you lie down; there is a bed in the dressing-room, and I would call you at once if necessary."

Just then Mrs. Antonio joined them. She also looked well nigh worn out.

"He is dozing now!" she said hopefully; and Stella became aware that the sound in the bedroom had ceased.

A little later she was seated by Robert's bedside, and from the dressing-room came long-drawn, regular snores which told her that Dr. Antonio was already enjoying his well-deserved rest.

Robert lay quiet, save for his quick, uneven breathing, and now and then a moaning sigh. The punkah had been stopped by Dr. Antonio's orders because, as he had explained to her, it had seemed to worry the patient; it was hardly needed now that the nights were growing cooler except to keep off mosquitoes, and Stella could do that with the palm-leaf fan Mrs. Antonio had handed over to her before her departure.

For an hour she sat fanning the mottled, swollen face on the pillow; the lights were turned low, and the long door-windows stood open. It was a bright starlit night; except for the cry of some restless bird, and the intermittent squabbling of animals at the base of the fort walls, there was little sound.... Stella tried not to think, she did not want to think; and to keep her mind quiescent she repeated to herself verses, songs, anything she could recall mechanically, but always with irritating persistency the words of the hymn that seemed to have been the starting point of her real life kept recurring, ousting all else:

Strive as she would she could not get away from the refrain, the very movements of the fan beat time to the words and the tune.

But she had chosen, she had dared; and what had been the result?

Supposing she had made a different choice; for example—on that other occasion, when Philip would so gladly have taken her away to live, if need be as he had said, "just for each other." At that time she had honestly put her own longing aside that his future, his work, his ambitions might not suffer. Supposing she had yielded, failed to "walk aright" according to her own conception, how soon would Philip have discovered his mistake? He owed her much! And she had done her little bit for India—not that India counted any longer with her now; India was to blame for everything, she told herself petulantly, illogically. She did not care what happened to India!... Suddenly Robert began to talk, and her whole attention became concentrated upon him. Gradually his voice grew clearer, though it was a curious, unnatural voice as if some stranger were speaking through his lips. Now and then he laughed, a hard self-satisfied little laugh.

"There they all go!" he waved his hand in a mocking welcome. "What a pretty procession! Not a bad record! No trouble, with a little precaution. Ah, Susie, you young devil—ran off with that fellow to spite me, did you? What was his name, now? Couldn't have done anything to suit me better.... Not a patch on the little Eurasian girl; look at her! Cost a pretty penny to get her married to that black railway boy. A fortune for him, anyway. Good child, run along; you're all right.... How many more? Where are you all going—to Hell?" He sang hoarsely:

"Yes, eyes like forget-me-nots. That was a lesson, a near shave. Nearly gave me away too, as well as herself. Well out of that! Something safer, easier to shunt. Sher Singh knows which side his bread's buttered ... faithful fellow Sher Singh...." The voice dropped again to an indistinct mutter.

Stella sat aghast. Was it all true, or just the delusions of a disordered brain? She felt in her bones that it was all true. Yet what did it matter? Robert's past life was nothing to her. Only, when he got well, could she forget these revelations, would it not be harder still to face life with him, however she might contrive to go her own way by means of subterfuge—and "precaution"! All shred of consideration and pity for Robert fell away from her as she sat patiently waving the fan. She, also, seemed to vision the "pretty procession" of his victims; they mocked her with their eyes as one of themselves. A nausea seized her of his cruelty, his pitiless sensuality; she felt she could almost applaud Sher Singh if indeed the man had actually tried to poison his master.

Then, without warning, Robert sat upright. Words came tumbling in confusion from his lips; something about the balcony, about someone who had thrown himself from the balcony.... He was getting out of bed! She tried to push him back, called loudly for Dr. Antonio, but the long snores from the dressing-room went on.... Now clinging to Robert's arm she was being dragged by the great bulky figure towards the open door that gave on to the balcony, and all the time she called and screamed, not daring to let go. They were out on the balcony; the stars had disappeared, and a faint yellow light was stealing over the sky like the reflection of some vast conflagration unseen in the distance. From below rose a sudden clamour, beasts fighting among themselves over carrion. Robert moved on, unconscious of her frantic efforts to stop him; she was powerless as she felt herself being drawn to the balustrade, still calling, clinging. His hands were on the stonework, he was climbing up, raising her with him. Then all at once he paused, turned his head, looked down on her; his face was terrible. Next moment he had taken her by the shoulders and flung her violently from him, and as she reeled giddily she saw something leap into the dawnlight, something that was like a gigantic bird with wings outstretched. She fell forward, striking her head heavily against the balustrade.

Stella lay semi-conscious, weakly pondering. What a queer smell; she knew the smell, yet could put no name to it; the room seemed unfamiliar, and she found she could see only a portion of it as if the rest were in darkness. What had happened? Where was she? Not that it signified—she felt too ill to care. When she tried to raise her hand it was heavy as lead—how funny! When she tried to speak she could not remember what she wanted to say. Her hat was too tight, it hurt her head, and she could not take it off. Why was she lying in bed with her hat on? That was funny too! She heard a little feeble laugh—who had laughed? She was very thirsty.... Ah, that was nice and cold.

"Thank you," she managed to say politely, as some iced liquid trickled down her throat. Then as her senses slowly awoke she found herself looking into Mrs. Antonio's homely brown face. Kind Mrs. Antonio, who was giving her a delicious drink. Mrs. Antonio would take off the hat that was hurting her forehead. Now she knew the name of the smell that pervaded the room; it was hookah! The successful recollection brought a sense of triumph. She smiled sweetly at Mrs. Antonio....

It was some days before Stella's memory grew clear, before she could recall what had happened up to the moment when she had fallen against the stone balustrade. Now she knew that she was in the Antonios' house, that she had been there for nearly three weeks hovering at death's door; she knew that Robert had been buried in the little European cemetery, and that a new Commissioner had arrived who, according to Mrs. Antonio, was "a very kind man and attending to all business" until Mrs. Crayfield should have recovered sufficiently to do her share; everybody in the station had been "helping and good, there was no hurry about anything, no need to bother." Stella knew also that there was injury to one side of her head, but to what extent she had not yet thought to ask. Her mind had been too exercised with the realisation of Robert's tragic end, with mingled compassion for him and, she could not pretend to deny it, relief for herself; any effort to look forward was as yet almost beyond her strength.

One morning later, when the bandages had been finally removed and she found she could see with both eyes, she asked Mrs. Antonio to bring her a hand mirror; she said lightly: "I want to see what I look like. I expect I'm an awful fright, but I'm well enough now to bear any shock!"

"Better go through your letters," suggested Mrs. Antonio, laying a little heap of accumulated correspondence on the table beside the bed. "I have to run away just now and see to the fowls and the goats."

She left the room hastily, and Stella fingered the envelopes with reluctance, dreading the condolences and the sympathy she might find within them. First she skimmed the English letters apprehensively; it was possible that the news had been telegraphed home to the papers. No; evidently when last they wrote Grandmamma and the aunts had known nothing. There was a letter, of course, from Maud; one from Sir George Rolt, others from friends she had made at Surima; Mrs. Cuthell had written. All contained stereotyped phrases; difficult letters to write! She hardly read them, because there was one she had put aside as yet unopened—one from Philip Flint! She knew the clear, small handwriting from seeing the manuscript of the George Thomas romance. How curious that she should receive her first letter from him in such circumstances. What had he written? Just "deep sympathy," no doubt, like all the others! Her hand went out to the letter; she felt faint as at last she forced herself to tear it open. For a few moments the words danced before her eyes. There were very few words; no formal beginning—only this:

"I have seen what has happened, and I write to tell you that I am the same, always the same. If you want me I will come anywhere and at any time. But if you do not write I shall understand.—Philip."

She sank back on her pillows. Philip was the same, always the same! She must have known it all along in her heart; how could she ever have doubted him! "Philip," she breathed, "Philip!"

The stuffy, hookah-smelling room was glorified, full of a celestial light. How quickly she would get well; she was well already—all the dark days were over. Happiness lay ahead, such happiness! She would send him just one little line to tell him she had his letter, that she would write; she composed it in her mind. Or should she telegraph, do both?... When and where they would meet did not trouble her; time was nothing; whatever interval was necessary would pass like a dream.

Mrs. Antonio, returning from her ministrations to the goats and the fowls, found the patient sitting up in bed, a pencil in her hand, writing on half-sheets of paper.

"Now, now," scolded Mrs. Antonio, shaking her forefinger, "doing too much!"

"I am quite well," said Stella. "I feel I could get up and do anything."

"To-morrow, perhaps, out of bed on the sofa. And Pussy will read to you. Such a nice book she has got, called 'Wide, Wide World.' Shall she come just now?"

"Not to-day, dear Mrs. Antonio. I have had some good news in my letters, and I can't think of anything else. I should like to do my hair when I have finished writing, and then have some of your nice tea. And will you send my letter and a telegram for me to the post office presently?"

"Doing hair! Writing letters! Sending telegrams!" exclaimed Mrs. Antonio. "You are wanting to run before walking!"

"Well, do let me run; I promise not to fall down. There, my letter is ready, and the telegram. Now do give me a looking-glass, and a brush and comb, there's a good soul. I feel I want to smarten myself up!"

"I think the doctor will be coming in just now. Better to wait and ask what he says. Listen!" she cocked her ears. "That is him coming back from the bazaar dispensary. I hear the trap. Wait a moment, Mrs. Crayfield dear——"

She was gone; and Stella, elated, defiant, rose from her bed and tottered across the room. She was determined to see herself in the glass before Mrs. Antonio came back. If she was a scarecrow she would know how long to postpone her meeting with Philip; she must be looking all right when she met Philip again.... Clinging to the furniture, she made her way to the dressing-table. Had she any legs, or hadn't she? If she felt she was walking on air, was it any wonder after Philip's letter! Now she had reached her goal. She bent forward; and in the mirror she beheld a sight that froze her blood. The whole of one side of her face was disfigured, hideous, grotesque; a great, puckered red scar ran from her forehead to her chin, shortening the contour, lifting the edge of her mouth.... She was revolting! That was why Mrs. Antonio had evaded her request for a hand glass.... Clutching the edge of the table, she stood gazing at the wreck of her beauty. Everything was gone; she could never let Philip see her; and she was so young, so young!

A few minutes later she had groped her way blindly back to the bed. She tore up the letter and the telegram she had written, tore up Philip's letter also. "If you do not write I shall understand." She could never write; Robert's legacy of punishment was complete.