Something like this was floating through his mind as he groped mentally for an explanation of Elizabeth’s attitude, the effect of which was neutral; nothing to draw him toward her in a way of moral sustaining, but also, nothing to antagonise him.

She must know that he was leaving on a dangerous mission; but she did not bring it up.  Perhaps with her usual diffident reserve she felt that it was his province to speak of that.

At any rate she called to a hovering bearer telling him to give his master Captain Barlow’s salaams.  Then with the flowers she passed into the bungalow.  She had quite a proppy, military stride, bred of much riding.

Barlow gazed after Elizabeth ruefully, wishing she had thrown him a life belt.  However, it did not matter; it was up to him to act in a sane manner, men of the Service were taught to rely on themselves.  And in Barlow was the something of breeding that held him to the true thing, to the pole; the breeding might be compared to the elusive thing in the magnetic needle.  It did not matter, he would probably marry Elizabeth—­it seemed the proper thing to do.  Devilish few of the chaps he knew babbled much about love and being batty over a girl—­that is, the girls they married.

Then the bearer brought Hodson’s salaams to the Captain.

And Hodson was a Civil Servant in excelsis.  He took to bed with him his Form D and Form C—­even the “D.  O.”, the Demi Official business, and worried over it when he should have slept or read himself to sleep.  Duty to him was a more exacting god than the black Kali to the Brahmins; it had dried up his blood—­atrophied his nerves of enjoyment.  And now he was depressed though he strove to greet Barlow cheerily.

“It’s a devilish shindy, this killing of our two chaps,” he burst forth with; “I’ve pondered over it, I’ve worried over it; the only solace in the thing is, that the arm of the law is long.”

“I think you’ve got it, sir,” Barlow encouraged.  “When we’ve smashed Sindhia—­and we will—­we’ll demand these murderers, hang a few of them, and send the rest to the Andamans.”

“Yes, it has simply got to wait; to stir up things now would only let the Peshwa know what you are going to do—­we’d show him our hand.  And I don’t mind telling you, Captain, that he is an absolute traitor; and I believe that it’s that damn Nana Sahib who’s influencing him.”

“There’s no doubt about it, sir.”

“No, there is not!” the Resident declared gloomily.  “The two dead sowars must be considered as sacrifice, just as though they had fallen in battle; it’s for the good of the Raj.  If I get hauled over the coals for this I don’t give a damn.  I’ve pondered over it, almost prayed over it, and it’s the only way.  There’s talk of a big loot of jewellery by these decoits, and the killing of the merchant and his men, but I’ve got nothing to do with that.  The one wonderful thing is, that