Ralston looked again at her, and as he looked the colour rose into her cheeks; there came a look of sympathy, perhaps of pity, into her eyes.  Almost her lips began to smile.  Ralston turned his head again towards the alley, and he started in his saddle.  The young man had raised his head.  He was gazing fixedly towards them.  His features were revealed and Ralston knew them well.

He turned quickly to Mrs. Oliver.

“You know that man?”

The colour deepened upon her face.

“It is the Prince of Chiltistan.”

“But you know him?” Ralston insisted.

“I have met him in London,” said Violet Oliver.

So Shere Ali was in Peshawur, when he should have been in
Chiltistan!  “Why?”

Ralston put the question to himself and looked to his companion for the answer.  The colour upon her face, the interest, the sympathy of her eyes gave him the answer.  This was the woman, then, whose image stood before Shere Ali’s memories and hindered him from marrying one of his own race!  Just with that sympathy and that keen interest does a woman look upon the man who loves her and whose love she does not return.  Moreover, there was Linforth’s hesitation.  Linforth had admitted there was an Englishwoman for whom Shere Ali cared, had admitted it reluctantly, had extenuated her thoughtlessness, had pleaded for her.  Oh, without a doubt Mrs. Oliver was the woman!

There flashed before Ralston’s eyes the picture of Linforth standing in the hall, turning over the cords and the cotton pad and the thick cloth.  Ralston looked down again upon him from the gallery and heard his voice, saying in a whisper: 

“It can’t be he!  It can’t be he!”

What would Linforth say when he knew that Shere Ali was lurking in Peshawur?

Ralston was still gazing at Shere Ali when the man behind the Prince made a movement.  He flung back the hood from his face, and disclosing his features looked boldly towards the riders.

A cry rang out at Ralston’s side, a woman’s cry.  He turned in his saddle and saw Violet Oliver.  The colour had suddenly fled from her cheeks.  They were blanched.  The sympathy had gone from her eyes, and in its place, stark terror looked out from them.  She swayed in her saddle.

“Do you see that man?” she cried, pointing with her hand.  “The man behind the Prince.  The man who has thrown back his cloak.”

“Yes, yes, I see him,” answered Ralston impatiently.

“It was he who crept into my room last night.”

“You are sure?”

“Could I forget?  Could I forget?” she cried; and at that moment, the man touched Shere Ali on the sleeve, and they both fled out of sight into the alley.

There was no doubt left in Ralston’s mind.  It was Shere Ali who had planned the abduction of Mrs. Oliver.  It was his companion who had failed to carry it out.  Ralston turned to the levies behind him.