was open to the sky and the keen eyes of the foul scavengers had detected the corpses, of which nothing was left now but torn clothing, mangled flesh, and scattered bones.  So there was no possibility of Daleham’s deciding if Dermot had been right in believing that one of the two raiders that he had killed was the Calcutta Bachelor of Arts.  On the whole the search had proved fruitless, for no further clue to the identity of either body of miscreants was found.

So the riders turned back.  At various points of the homeward journey members of the party went off down tracks leading in the direction of their respective gardens, and there was but a small remnant left when Dermot said good-bye, after hearty thanks from Daleham and cheery farewells from the others.

He did not reach the Fort until the following day.  There he learned that Parker had never received the telegram asking for help.  Subsequent enquiries from the telegraph authorities only elicited the statement that the line had been broken between Barwahi and Ranga Duar.  As where it passed through the forest accidents to it from trees knocked down by elephants or brought down by natural causes were frequent, it was impossible to discover the truth, but the fact that nearly all the telegraph officials were Bengali Brahmins made Dermot doubtful.  But he was able to report the happenings to Simla by cipher messages over the line.

Parker was furious because the information had failed to reach him.  He had missed the opportunity of marching a party of his men down to the rescue of Miss Daleham and his commanding officer, and he was not consoled by the latter pointing out to him that it would have been impossible for him to have arrived in time for the fight.

Two days after Dermot’s return to the Fort he was informed that three Bhuttias wanted to see him.  On going out on to the verandah of his bungalow he found an old man whom he recognised as the headman of a mountain village just inside the British border, ten miles from Ranga Duar.  Beside him stood two sturdy young Bhuttias with a hang-dog expression on their Mongol-like faces.

The headman, who was one of those in Dermot’s pay, saluted and, dragging forward his two companions, bade them say what they had come there to say.  Each of the young men pulled out of the breast of his jacket a little cloth-wrapped parcel, and, opening it, poured a stream of bright silver rupees at the feet of the astonished Major.  Then they threw themselves on their knees before him, touched the ground with their foreheads, and implored his pardon, saying that they had sinned against him in ignorance and offered in atonement the price of their crime.

Dermot turned enquiringly to the headman, who explained that the two had taken part in the carrying off of the white mem, and being now convinced that they had in so doing offended a very powerful being—­god or devil—­had come to implore his pardon.