“Hopeless?  Why?”

“There were only three of us, and they were a large party,” replied Chunerbutty.

“Yes; but you had rifles and should have been a match for fifty.”

The Bengali shrugged his shoulders.

“We did not know in which way they had gone,” he said.  “We could not track them.”

“I suppose not.  Well?”

“Fred and Mr. Parry have ridden off in different directions to the neighbouring gardens to summon help.  We sent two coolies with a telegram to you or any officer at Ranga Duar, to be sent from the telegraph office on the Barwahi estate.  Then you came.”

Dermot observed him narrowly.  He was always suspicious of the Hindu; but, unless the engineer was a good actor, there was no doubt that he was greatly affected by the outrage.  His distress seemed absolutely genuine.  And certainly there seemed no reason for suspecting his complicity in the carrying off of Miss Daleham.  So the Major turned to the servants and, taking them apart one by one, questioned them closely.  Chunerbutty had given their story correctly.  But Dermot elicited two new facts which they had not mentioned to the engineer.  One raider at least was armed with a revolver, which was unusual for a Bhuttia, the difficulty of procuring firearms and ammunition in Bhutan being so great that even the soldiers of the Maharajah are armed only with swords and bows.  The Dalehams’ khansamah, or butler, stated that this man had threatened all the servants with this weapon, bidding them under pain of death remain in their houses without raising an alarm.

“Do you know Bhutanese?” asked Dermot.

“No, sahib.  But he spoke Bengali,” replied the servant.

“Spoke it well?”

“No, sahib, not well, but sufficiently for us to understand him.”

Another servant, on being questioned, mentioned the curious fact that the man with the revolver conversed with another of the raiders in Bengali.  This struck Dermot as being improbable, but others of the servants confirmed the fact.  Having gathered all the information that they could give him he went over to look at the dead man.

The syce, or groom, was lying on his back in a pool of blood.  He had been struck down by a blow from a sword which seemed to have split the skull.  But, on placing his ear to the poor wretch’s chest, Dermot thought that he could detect a faint fluttering of the heart.  Holding his polished silver cigarette case to the man’s mouth he found its brightness slightly clouded.

“Why, he is still living,” exclaimed the soldier.  “Quick!  Bring water.”

He hastily applied his flask to the man’s lips.  Although he grudged the time, Dermot felt that the wounded man’s attempt to defend Noreen entitled him to have his wound attended to even before any effort was made to rescue her.  So he had the syce carried to his hut, and then, taking out his surgical case, he cleansed and sewed up the gash.  But his thoughts were busy with Noreen’s peril.  The occurrence astonished him.  Bhuttias from the hills beyond the border occasionally raided villages and tea-gardens in British territory in search of loot, but were generally careful to avoid Europeans.  Such an outrage as the carrying off of an Englishwoman had never been heard of on the North-East Frontier.