crossed it to the steps at the far end; and here and there, in its depth, the reflection of a lamp burned steadily.  At the far end steps rose again to a great platform and to gilded arches through which lights poured in a blaze, and gave to that end almost the appearance of a lighted stage, and made of the courtyard a darkened auditorium.  From one flight of steps to the other, in the dim cool light, the guests passed across the floor of the court, soldiers in uniforms, civilians in their dress of state, jewelled princes of the native kingdoms, ladies in their bravest array.  But now and again one or two would slip from the throng, and, leaving the procession, take their own way about the Fort.  Among those who slipped away was Violet Oliver.  She went to the side of the courtyard where a couch stood empty.  There she seated herself and waited.  In front of her the stream of people passed by talking and laughing, within view, within earshot if only one raised one’s voice a trifle above the ordinary note.  Yet there was no other couch near.  One might talk at will and not be overheard.  It was, to Violet Oliver’s thinking, a good strategic position, and there she proposed to remain till Shere Ali found her, and after he had found her, until he went away.

She wondered in what guise he would come to her:  a picturesque figure with a turban of some delicate shade upon his head and pearls about his throat, or—­as she wondered, a young man in the evening dress of an Englishman stepped aside from the press of visitors and came towards her.  Before she could, in that dim light, distinguish his face, she recognised him by the lightness of his step and the suppleness of his figure.  She raised herself into a position a little more upright, and held out her hand.  She made room for him on the couch beside her, and when he had taken his seat, she turned at once to speak.

But Shere Ali raised his hand in a gesture of entreaty.

“Hush!” he said with a smile; and the smile pleaded with her as much as did his words.  “Just for a moment!  We can argue afterwards.  Just for a moment, let us pretend.”

Violet Oliver had expected anger, accusations, prayers.  Even for some threat, some act of violence, she had come prepared.  But the quiet wistfulness of his manner, as of a man too tired greatly to long for anything, took her at a disadvantage.  But the one thing which she surely understood was the danger of pretence.  There had been too much of pretence already.

“No,” she said.

“Just for a moment,” he insisted.  He sat beside her, watching the clear profile of her face, the slender throat, the heavy masses of hair so daintily coiled upon her head.  “The last eight months have not been—­could not be.  Yesterday we were at Richmond, just you and I. It was Sunday—­you remember.  I called on you in the afternoon, and for a wonder you were alone.  We drove down together to Richmond, and dined together in the little room at the end of the passage—­the room with the big windows, and the name of the woman who was murdered in France scratched upon the glass.  That was yesterday.”