“For God’s sake, Elizabeth, what impossible thing has led you to believe that Captain Barlow has anything to do with this girl?” the father asked.

“I’ll tell you; the matter is too grave for me to remain silent.  This morning I rode early—­earlier than usual, for I wanted to pick up the Captain before he had started.  As I turned my mount in to his compound I saw, coming from the back of the bungalow, this native woman, and she was being taken away by his chowkidar.  She had just come out some back door of the bungalow, for from the drive I could see the open space that lay between the bungalow and the servants’ quarters.”

Hodson dropped a hand to the teak-wood desk; it looked inadequate, thin, bloodless; blue veins mapped its white back.  “You are mistaken, Elizabeth, I’m sure.  Some other girl—­”

“No, father, I was not mistaken.  There are not many native girls like the Gulab, I’ll admit.  As she turned a clump of crotons she saw me sitting my horse and drew a gauze scarf across her face to hide it.  I waited, and asked the chowkidar if it were his daughter, and the old fool said it was the wife of his son; and the girl that he claimed was his son’s wife had the iron bracelet of a Hindu widow on her arm.  And the Gulab wears one—­I saw it the night she danced.”

A ghastly hush fell upon the three.  Barlow was moaning inwardly, “Poor Bootea!”; Hodson, fingers pressed to both temples, was trying to think this was all the mistaken outburst of an angry woman.  The strong-faced, honest, fearless soldier sitting in the chair could not be a traitor—­could not be.

Suddenly something went awry in the inflamed chambers of Elizabeth’s mind—­as if an electric current had been abruptly shut off.  She hesitated; she had meant to say more; but there was a staggering vacuity.

With an effort she grasped a wavering thing of tangibility, and said:  “I’m going now, father—­to give the keys to the butler for breakfast.  You can question Captain Barlow.”

Elizabeth turned and left the room; her feet were like dependents, servants that she had to direct to carry her on her way.  She did not call to the butler, but went to her room, closed the door, flung herself on the bed, face downward, and sobbed; tears that scalded splashed her cheeks, and she beat passionately with clenched fist at the pillow, beating, as she knew, at her heart.  It was incredible, this thing, her feelings.

“I don’t care—­I don’t care—­I never did!” she gasped.

But she did, and only now knew it.

“I was right—­I’m glad—­I’d say it again!”

But she would not, and she knew it.  She knew that Barlow could not be a traitor; she knew it; it was just a battered new love asserting itself.

And below in the room the two men for a little sat not speaking of the ghoulish thing.  Barlow had drawn the papers from his pocket; he passed them silently across the table.