Archibald Travers stood in his favorite attitude by the window, his shoulder propped against the casement, his arms folded, a smile of good-natured amusement on his healthy face.

"My dear child," he protested, "what earthly interest can it have for you to know the pros and cons of the business? You wouldn't understand, and that small head would ache for a week afterward. Be content with the outline of the thing. Of course it has all been frightfully unfortunate. But the Rajah wasn't to be held back. He believed the mine was going to be the making of Marut—and for a matter of fact so did I at first, otherwise I shouldn't have put all my money in it. The fellow had an enthusiasm and confidence which fairly carried us off our feet. Well, it's done, and it's no use crying about it. The best thing we can do is to clear out of Marut as fast as we can. People are bound to be disagreeable about it."

"The Carys are ruined too?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know—they have lost a bit, I suppose." His voice sounded unpleasant. "At any rate, I'll say that for them—they behaved as people of their extraction would behave. First the mother poured out a torrent of abuse over the poor Rajah which would have been the envy of a fish-wife, and then the daughter turned on me." He laughed. "It was a most powerful scene of feminine hysterics. I was glad that you were not there."

Lois sat silent, her head resting on her hand, her eyes fixed thoughtfully on the table.

"And what are we going to do?" she asked at last. "You take the matter so easily, but if we are really ruined—"

He laid his hand affectionately on her shoulder.

"I am ruined, Lois. I did not say that you were. Even with your rather low opinion of me, you could hardly have supposed that I would touch your money. You are well enough off to do what you like. As for me—" he squared his shoulders—"I feel quite capable of starting things all over again."

His tone touched her. She looked up, and her face softened. There was nothing that could have made her happier than to have discovered in her husband some elements of courage and sincerity.

"Of course, Archibald, whatever is mine is yours," she said. "You must have known that."

"My dear generous little woman!" He bent over her and kissed her, apparently unconscious that she instinctively drew back from his caress. "If you really will help me, no doubt I shall build things up again in no time, and this one blunder won't count for much. You are a worthy comrade for a man."

Perhaps he had accepted her offer too quickly, perhaps his tone jarred on her as too elated, too satisfied. She got up, pushing her letters quickly to one side.

"You really wish us to start for Madras to-night?"

"Yes, if you can manage it. It is important that I should get back as soon as possible, and the business here is finished."

"Very well. I will pack up as much as I can. The rest must be sent on afterward."

He let her reach the door before he stopped her again.

"By the way, Lois, there is one thing I must ask you. I do not wish you to have any further intercourse with that Beatrice Cary. She is not a person with whom I should wish my wife to associate. You were right about her—she is a bad, unscrupulous woman."

With her hand on the curtain she turned and looked back at him. A cloud of curious distrust passed over her pale face.

"I never said that she was bad or unscrupulous. I do not believe that she is. You say that now, but it was not your old opinion."

"I suppose it is possible to see people in different and less agreeable lights?" he retorted sharply.

"Only too possible. But as she was never a friend of mine, and we are leaving within the next few hours, the injunction to avoid her is unnecessary." She paused as though listening. "I hear some one talking to the syce," she went on hurriedly. "It sounds like Captain Stafford's voice. Archibald"—she turned and came quickly to his side—"please let me out of the verandah. I don't want to meet him."

He caught her by the wrist and pushed her back. The movement was brutal, unlike his usual gentleness, and she saw by the expression of his face that for the moment he had lost all consciousness of what he was doing.

"I don't want to see him either. Go and tell him that I am not at home—that I have started for Madras—quick! Don't stand there staring."

His extraordinary excitement, apparently unreasonable and entirely opposed to his calm, easy-going habits, had the effect of setting fire to her dormant suspicion. She wrenched herself free.

"I am not going to tell him a lie," she said firmly.

"Lois, you are a little fool! Do as I tell you. It isn't a lie—only a piece of conventional humbug which everybody understands. There, please!" His tone of entreaty was more disagreeable to her than his roughness. All the pride and rigidity of her Puritan temperament was up in arms against the indefinable something which it had long ago recognized and despised.

"It is not conventional humbug," she retorted—"not in this case. You are lying because you are afraid, because you have a reason for not seeing Captain Stafford which you won't tell me."

He had not time to answer. The curtains were pushed on one side, and Stafford entered hurriedly. He was covered with dust and looked haggard and exhausted. He did not seem to see Lois, though she stood immediately in front of him. His eyes passed over her head to Travers.

"I am sorry to come in unannounced," he said, without giving either an opportunity to speak, "but your servant was making difficulties, and I have not a minute to lose. I have galloped every inch of the way here from the Colonel's bungalow. I must speak to you at once, Travers, alone."

Lois went toward the door. As she passed him she saw him look at her for the first time. And she went her way blinded with tears that had no cause save in the stern, unhappy face which had flashed its message to her. For she knew that his glance had been a message; that he had tried to explain, and that she had not understood. The curtain fell behind her, and Stafford crossed the room to Travers' side.

"You have heard what has happened?" he demanded.

Travers had resumed his old attitude of indifference. Only his eyes betrayed the uneasiness which he was really feeling.

"Do you mean the Rajah? No, I haven't heard anything, but if he is making himself a nuisance, I am not surprised. I expected it."

"Don't talk like that!" Stafford exclaimed, bringing his clenched hand down on the table. "How dare you! Have you no sense of responsibility? For you it was no more than a doubtful speculation, and you took care that there were no risks; but for Marut it means—Heaven knows what it means!"

"Nothing!" returned Travers coolly. "Nothing to get heated about. The Rajah feels sore, no doubt, but that will pass. And that is not my fault. It would have been all right if Miss Cary had not—well, made such a fool of herself, and incidentally of us all."

Stafford gazed steadily at the man who smiled at him. He could not understand a character so absolutely without all moral foundations.

"You are no doubt preparing to start for Madras?" he asked, controlling his voice with a strong effort.

"Certainly. There is nothing more to be done here."

"Let me tell you that you are not likely to leave Marut alive."

Travers laughed.

"Nonsense, my dear Captain! I am not to be frightened with nursery tales."

"It is not a nursery tale. I give you my word of honor that before nightfall we shall be overwhelmed by a force a hundred times larger than anything we can bring on the field for weeks to come."

Travers shifted his position carelessly. Stafford had not succeeded in frightening him. He did not believe in native rebellions. What he had seen of the Hindu character convinced him of its fundamental cowardice and incapability for independent action.

"A few blank cartridges will bring the Rajah very quickly to his senses," he assured Stafford, with perfect good-humor. "We have nothing to be afraid of in that quarter."

"You really think that?" Stafford demanded significantly. "Knowing what you know, you think we have no cause to fear him?"

Travers changed color. The uneasy flicker in his eyes returned.

"What on earth do you mean?"

"You know very well. You know whom we shall be fighting against."

"Of course—a headlong, inexperienced Hindu prince—"

"You are choosing to have a very short memory. Nehal Singh is more than that."

Travers stood upright. The healthy glow had died out of his cheeks.

"Look here, Stafford," he said roughly, "what is it you want? I can see you want something."

"Yes. Give me back my promise. I can not keep it any longer."

"Do you think I extort promises that I don't want kept? Are you in earnest?"

"Yes, terribly in earnest. Look the thing in the face, Travers. Our lives, and, what is far more, the lives of our women and Heaven knows how many of our countrymen, hang in the balance. If you don't believe me, ask Nicholson."

"I shall believe what I like!" Travers began to pace backward and forward, his mind busy with lightning calculations. Before nightfall they would be out of Marut. Stafford was exaggerating the danger, perhaps for his own purposes. The whole thing was nonsense.

"I keep you to your promise," he said obstinately.

Stafford lifted his head. The man's natural reserve and conventionalism were borne down by the sense of his helplessness. He was fighting against a giant of egoism, as it seemed to him, of gross and criminal stupidity, for the lives of untold hundreds.

"You can not realize what you are doing," he said. "It is our one hope of holding the Rajah's hand, and with every moment the danger is increasing. As I came along the road I passed crowds of natives on the way to the palace. Most of them were men from your mine, Travers, and they had an ugly look. They did not touch me, it is true, but I believe they are only waiting for Nehal Singh's order, and then it will be too late. Travers, we must do everything in our power to prevent him giving that order. I have promised Colonel Carmichael to do what I could. At twelve I must be back, or—"

Travers swung around. His face was livid.

"You told him—?"

"No, but I must. I can not keep my promise. You must set me free. I gave it you because you told me that I was not concerned. Now I am concerned, I dare not keep silence."

"My dear fellow, you must—that is, if you are a man of honor."

"Of what use is the secret to you?"

"That is my affair. There was a time when you were anxious enough to keep it."

"It was for Lois' sake. The two things were bound up together. She can not be spared any longer."

"You think not? I am of another opinion. I put my wife's peace of mind higher than your old-maidish alarms." Travers faced his companion with the assurance of a man who feels that he has the whip-hand. His experience taught him that a man of certain orthodox principles has a very limited sphere of action. He runs in herds with hundreds of other men of the same mould, and under given circumstances has only one course of conduct open to him. Had Travers been in Stafford's place, no one living could have told what he would do. But Stafford had no choice—at least, so Travers judged.

"You are one of honor's Pharisees, my dear fellow," he said frankly.
"You can't get out of your promise, and you know it. You cling to the
letter of the law. It is your way. You had better go back to the
Colonel and tell him to manage the Rajah in his own style."

The clock on the table chimed the half-hour. It was ten minutes' full gallop back to the Colonel's bungalow. Stafford set his teeth in a white heat of despair.

"If you have no consideration for the Station, for your own wife, for your own country, at least consider yourself!" he exclaimed. "Are you blind to the danger? We have scarcely fifty men, and up there are thousands quietly waiting for the Rajah's signal. You must have seen them with your own eyes pouring through—"

"I saw any amount of dirty pilgrims, and got out of the way as fast as
I could," was Travers' smiling retort.

Stafford stood baffled and helpless. For the first time he was able to recognize and appreciate a certain type of Englishman to which he himself to some extent belonged—an arrogant ignoramus who, encamped behind his wall of superiority, fears nothing because he sees nothing, and sees nothing because outside the walls there can not possibly be anything worth looking at. Nicholson had torn down Stafford's imagined security, and he stood aghast at his old insolent self-confidence as reflected in Travers' smiling face.

"To be quite honest with you," the latter went on, after a moment's pause, "I have very little faith in our dreadful danger. Admitted that I led the Rajah on a more than doubtful speculation, admitted that Miss Cary went further than she need have done, it is still most unlikely that his injured feelings are going to lead him to such a desperate step as to enter into conflict with the whole Empire. Believe me, Stafford, the idea is ridiculous, and I have not the least intention of throwing up my own hard-won security—"

It was a bad slip, and he knew it. Stafford, who had stood with his face half averted, in an attitude of irresolution, swung round.

"Your security?" he echoed.

Travers shrugged his shoulders. He had made a mistake, but he saw no reason to be afraid of Stafford or of any one in Marut.

"I said 'my security,'" he repeated.

Stafford clenched his fists. The expression on his gaunt, rugged face showed that he had understood the full import of Travers' words.

"You blackguard!" he said under his breath.

Travers turned scarlet.

"Mind yourself, Captain Stafford. You may find yourself outside the door quicker than you care for it!"

"You blackguard!" Stafford repeated furiously. "I haven't a better name for you. You have simply humbugged me with your lies about Lois and your devotion to her—"

Travers strode at him.

"How dare you!"

"Don't bluster, Travers! It can't hide what I see. You married Lois for her money—"

"Hold your infernal tongue!"

"And now you are afraid. Well, you shall have some cause." He picked up his helmet, which lay on the table. "I gave you my promise because you assured me it was for Lois' happiness, and I believed you. According to my ideas, both of them were better left in ignorance. I did not know that you had your own motives—silly fool that I am!" He turned to hurry from the room. Travers barred his way.

"What are you going to do?"

"I shall tell the Colonel the truth!"

"It will break his heart."

"I do not believe it. Out of the way, Travers!"

"And then?"

"Rajah Nehal Singh shall be told."

"Have you considered the consequences?"

"I have."

"Lois will be ruined!"

"You will be ruined. Lois will have my protection, thank God!"

The two men faced each other an instant in silence. Travers' face betrayed a curious complex emotion of desperation and shame. He had been called a blackguard, and the word had stung like the cut of a horse-whip. He had never believed it possible that any man should have the right to use such a term—to him, the embodiment of geniality, good-humor and good-nature. He did not believe even now that any one had the right. He was not an unprincipled man—not in the sense that he had ever consciously done wrong. He did not know what wrong was—his one conception being an act putting him within reach of the law; and of such an indiscretion he had never been guilty. Throughout his scheming he had always pictured himself as a complaisant Napoleon of finance, combining business with pleasure. His conduct toward Lois had been based on this standpoint. He was genuinely fond of her, and is there any law forbidding a man to lay firm hold upon his wife's money? Yet Stafford had called him a blackguard, and Stafford was the world—the world of respectability of which Travers had believed himself a gifted member. For the moment the incomprehensible insult was more to him than the coming danger to which his plans were put.

"You look at me as though I had committed a crime!" he exclaimed, in a tone of injured protest.

"You have," Stafford answered steadily. "You have fooled me, playing on my prejudices, and God knows what other weaknesses. I won't say anything of that. I deserve my share of blame. But you have tricked and deceived a woman. You have deceived an honorable man into a dishonorable venture. You have brought disaster on your own country. You are no more than a common adventurer. You are the parasite to whom we owe all our misfortunes, and—"

"Stafford, take care!"

"Out of the way! I am going to put an end to it all!"

Travers flung the excited man back. Shame is a dangerous poison in the blood of base natures. It is merely the precursor to a state of absolute license where self-control, self-respect are flung to the winds and the devil is set free to work his full, unchecked will. Travers glared at Stafford, hating his upright bearing, his upright indignation with a violence to which murder would have been the only true expression.

"You are not going till I have your promise to hold your tongue!" he said between his teeth.

Stafford flung the other's detaining hand from him. Freed from his laming diseased conscience, and roused to activity, he acted like a man of lightning determination and iron will.

"That you will never have, and you are a scoundrel to ask for it. As you like—there are other exits than the door." He swung round and made for the open window.

Travers did not stop him. He stood rooted to the spot, his hand on the revolver which he carried at his side. The revolver had not been meant for Stafford. Travers' quick eyes had caught sight of something creeping slowly and stealthily up the verandah steps. He had seen the flash of a knife, and a cry of warning had rushed to his lips. The cry was never uttered. Devil and angel fought their last battle over Travers' drifting, rudderless nature. The word "scoundrel" had been the devil's winning cast.

"Go, then, and be damned to you!" Travers shrieked.

He saw Stafford reach the verandah steps. The stalwart khaki-clad figure was photographed on his reeling brain. He heard the clank of a sword against the first stone step. He tried to cry out—afterward he tried to believe that he had cried out—but it was too late. The hidden something which had crouched behind the heavy creepers sprang up—for a short second seemed to tower above the unconscious officer—then a gleam of light flashed down with the black hand. Stafford flung up his arms, swung around, and fell face downward on the verandah. There was a short, stifled groan, and then—and then only—Travers fired.

[Illustration: Then—and then only—Travers fired.]