Long as was the way—­for forty miles of jungle paths lay between Malpura and Ranga Duar—­the journey seemed all too short for Noreen.  But it came to an end at last, and they arrived at the garden as the sun set and Kinchinjunga’s fairy white towers and spires hung high in air for a space of time tantalisingly brief.  Before they reached the bungalow the short-lived Indian twilight was dying, and the tiny oil-lamps began to twinkle in the palm-thatched huts of the toilers’ village on the estate.  And forth from it swarmed the coolies, men, women, children, not to welcome them, but to stare at the sacred elephant.  Many heads bent low, many hands were lifted to foreheads in awed salutation.  Some of the throng prostrated themselves to the dust, not in greeting to their own sahib but in reverence to the marvellous animal and the mysterious white man bestriding his neck who was becoming identified with him.

When Dermot rode away on Badshah the next morning the same scenes were repeated.  The coolies left their work among the tea-bushes to flock to the side of the road as he passed.  But he paid as little attention to them as Badshah did, and turned just before the Dalehams’ bungalow was lost to sight to wave a last farewell to the girl still standing on the verandah steps.  It was a vision that he took away with him in his heart.

But, as the elephant bore him away through the forest, Noreen faded from his mind, for he had graver, sterner thoughts to fill it.  Love can never be a fair game between the sexes, for the man and the woman do not play with equal stakes.  The latter risks everything, her soul, her mind, her whole being.  The former wagers only a fragment of his heart, a part of his thoughts.  Yet he is not to blame; it is Nature’s ordinance.  For the world’s work would never go on if men, who chiefly carry it on, were possessed, obsessed, by love as women are.

So Dermot was only complying with that ordinance when he allowed the thoughts of his task, which indeed was ever present with him, to oust Noreen from his mind.  He was on his way to Payne’s bungalow to meet the managers of several gardens in that part of the district, who were to assemble there to report to him the result of their investigations.

His suspicions were more than confirmed.  All had the same tale to tell—­a story of strange restlessness, a turbulent spirit, a frequent display of insolence and insubordination among the coolies ordinarily so docile and respectful.  But this was only in the gardens that numbered Brahmins in their population.  The influence of these dangerous men was growing daily.  This was not surprising to any one who knows the extraordinary power of this priestly caste among all Hindus.

There was evidence of constant communication between the Bengalis on the other estates and Malpura, which pointed to the latter as being the headquarters of the promoters of disaffection.  But few of the planters were inclined to agree with Dermot in suspecting Chunerbutty as likely to prove the leader, for they were of opinion that his repudiation and disregard of all the beliefs and customs of the Brahmins would render him obnoxious to them.