There was truth in what he said.  By no arrangement could the liberation of Shere Ali have been effected with such secrecy and despatch as by the simple plan of going ourselves.  And now we toiled up the last hills, vainly attempting to keep our horses in a canter; long before the relay was reached they had relapsed into a dogged jog-trot.

So we reached Simla at sunrise, and crawled wearily up the steps of the hotel to our rooms, tired with the cramp of dooly and saddle for so many days, and longing for the luxury of the bath, the civilised meal, and the arm-chair.  Of course I did not suppose Isaacs would go to bed.  He expected that the Westonhaughs would have returned by this time, and he would doubtless go to them as soon as he had breakfasted.  So we separated to dress and be shaved—­my beard was a week old at least—­and to make ourselves as comfortable as we deserved to be after our manifold exertions.  We had been three days and a half from Keitung to Simla.

At my door stood the faithful Kiramat Ali, salaaming and making a pretence of putting dust on his head according to his ideas of respectful greeting.  On the table lay letters; one of these, a note, lay in a prominent position.  I took it instinctively, though I did not know the hand.  It was from Mr. Currie Ghyrkins.

     Saturday morning.

MY DEAR MR. GRIGGS—­If you have returned to Simla, I should be glad to see you for half an hour on a matter of urgent importance.  I would come to you if I could.  My niece, Miss Westonhaugh, is, I am sorry to say, dangerously ill.—­Sincerely yours,

     A. CURRIE GHYRKINS.

It was dated two days before, for to-day was Monday.  I made every possible haste in my toilet and ordered a horse.  I wondered whether Isaacs had received a similar missive.  What could be the matter?  What might not have happened in those two days since the note was written?  I felt sure that the illness had begun before I left them in the Terai, hastened probably by the pain she had felt at Isaacs’ departure; there is nothing like a little mental worry to hasten an illness, if it is to come at all.  Poor Miss Westonhaugh!  So, after all her gaiety and all the enjoyment she had from the tiger-hunt on which she had set her heart, she had come back to be ill in Simla.  Well, the air was fresh enough now—­almost cold, in fact.  She would soon be well.  Still, it was a great pity.  We might have had such a gay week before breaking up.

I was dressed, and I went down the steps, passing Isaacs’ open door.  He was calmly reading a newspaper and having a morning smoke, until it should be time to go out.  Clearly he had not heard anything of Miss Westonhaugh’s illness.  I resolved I would say nothing until I knew the worst, so I merely put my head in and said I should be back in an hour to breakfast with him, and passed on.  Once on horseback, I galloped as hard as I could, scattering chuprassies and children and marketers to right and left in the bazaar.  It was not long before I left my horse at the corner of Mr. Currie Ghyrkins’ lawn, and walking to the verandah, which looked suspiciously neat and unused, inquired for the master of the house.  I was shown into his bedroom, for it was still very early and he was dressing.