Better accept the fact--it is useless to meet."

"I refuse to accept the fact."

"But--there it is. I only make you angry. And you imply evil of the man--I admire."

He so plainly boggled over the words that Roy struck without hesitation.

"Dyan, tell me straight--_do_ you admire him? Would you have Aruna marry him?"

"N--no. Impossible. There is--another kind of wife," he blurted out, averting his eyes; but before Roy could speak, he had pulled himself together. "However--I mustn't stay talking. Good-night."

Roy's anger--fierce but transient, always--had faded. "There are some ties you can't break, Dyan, even with your Bande Mataram. Come again soon."

Impossible to resist the friendly tone. "But," he asked, "how long are you hanging about Delhi like this?"

"As long as I choose."

"But--why?"

"To see something of you, old chap. It seems the only way--unless I can persuade you to chuck all this poisonous vapouring, and come back to Jaipur with me. Aruna's waiting--breaking her heart--longing to see you...."

He knew he was rushing his fences; but the mood was on; the chance too good to lose.

Dyan's eyes lightened a moment. Then he shook his head. "I am too much involved."

"You _will_ come, though, in the end," Roy said quietly. "I can wait.

Sunday, is it? And we'll bar politics--as we did in the good days. Don't you want to hear of them all at Home?"

"Sometimes--yes. But perhaps--better not. You are a fine fellow, Roy--even to quarrel with. Good-night." They shook hands warmly.

On the threshold, Dyan turned, hesitated; then--in a hurried murmur--asked: "_Where_ is she--what's she doing now ... Tara?"

He was obviously unaware of having used her name: and Roy, though startled, gave no sign.

"She's still in Serbia. She's been simply splendid. Head over ears in it all from the start."--He paused--"Shall I tell her--when I write ...

about you?"

Dyan shrugged his shoulders. "Waste of ink and paper. It would not interest her."

"It would. I know Tara. What you are doing now would hurt her--keenly."

"Tcha!" The sharp sound expressed sheer unbelief. It also expressed pain. "Good-night," he added, for the third time; and went out--leaving Roy electrified; a-tingle with the hope of success at last.

Tara was not forgotten; though Dyan had been trying to pretend she was--even to himself. Ten chances to one, she was still at the core everything; even his present incongruous activities....

Roy paced the room; his imagination alight; his own recoil from the conjunction, overborne by immediate concern for Dyan. Unable to forget her--who could?--he had thrust the pain of remembering into the dark background of his mind; and there it remained--a hard knot of soreness and bitterness--as Aruna had said. And all that bottled-up bitterness had been vented against England--an unconscious symbol of Tara, desired yet withheld; while the intensity of his thwarted pa.s.sion sought and found an outlet in fervent adoration of his country visualised as woman.

Right or wrong--that was how Roy saw it. And the argument seemed psychologically sound. Cruel to be kind, he must touch the point of pain; draw the hidden thing into the open; and so reawaken the old Dyan, who could arraign the new one far more effectually than could Roy himself or another. Seized with his idea, he indulged in a more hopeful letter to Aruna; and had scarcely patience to wait for Sunday.

In leisurely course it arrived--that last Sunday of the Great War. The Chandni Chowk was a-bubble with strange and stirring rumours; but the day waned and the evening waned--and no Dyan appeared.

On Monday morning--still no word: but news, so tremendous, flashed half across the world, that Dyan and his mysterious defection flickered like a match at midday.

The War was over--virtually over. From the Vosges to the sea, not the crack of a rifle nor the moan of a sh.e.l.l; only an abrupt, dramatic silence--the end! Belief in the utter cessation of all that wonderful and terrible activity, penetrated slowly. And as it penetrated Roy realised, with something like dismay, that the right and natural sense of elation simply was not. He actually felt depressed. Shrink as he might from the jar of conflict, the sure instinct of a soldier race warned him that h.e.l.l holds no fury and earth no danger like a ruthless enemy not decisively smitten. The psychology of it was beyond him--shrouded in mystery.

Not till long afterwards did he know how many, in England and Prance, had shared his bewildered feeling; how British soldiers in Belgium had cried like children, had raged almost to the point of mutiny. But one thing he knew--steeped as he was in the sub-strata of Eastern thought and feeling. India would never understand. Visible, spectacular victory, alone could impress the East: and such an impression might have counteracted many mistakes that had gone before....

Tuesday brought no Dyan; only a scrawled note: "Sorry--too much business. Can't come just now." _If_ one could take that at its face value----! But it might mean anything. Had Chandranath found out--and had Dyan not the moral courage to go his own way?

He knew by now where his cousin lodged; but had never been there. It was in one of the oldest parts of the city; alive with political intrigue.

If Roy's nationality were suspected, 'things' might happen, and it was clearly unfair on his father to run needless risks. But this was different. 'Things' might be happening to Dyan.

So, after nearly a week of maddening suspense, he resolved--with all due caution--to take his chance.

A silvery twilight was ebbing from the sky when he plunged into a maze of narrow streets and by-lanes where the stream of Eastern life flows along immemorial channels scarcely stirred by surface eddies of 'advance.'

Threading his way through the crowd, he found the street and the landmark he sought: a doorway, adorned with a faded wreath of marigolds, indication of some holy presence within; and just beyond it, a low-browed arch, almost a tunnel. It pa.s.sed under balconied houses toppling perilously forward; and as Roy entered it, a figure darkened the other end. He could only distinguish the long dark coat and turbaned head: but there flashed instant conviction--Chandranath!

Alert, rather than alarmed, he hurried forward, hugging the opposite wall. At the darkest point they crossed. Roy felt the other pause, scrutinise him--and pa.s.s on. The relief of it! And the ignominy of suddenly feeling the old childish terror, when you had turned your back on a dark room. It was all he could do not to break into a run....

In the open court, set round with tottering houses, a sacred neem tree made a vast patch of shadow. Near it, a rickety staircase led up to Dyan's roof room. Roy, mounting cautiously, knocked at the highest door.

"Are you there? It's Roy," he called softly.

A pause:--then the door flew open and Dyan stood before him, in loose white garments; no turban; a farouche look in his eyes.

"My G.o.d--_Roy_! Crazy of you! I never thought----"

"Well, I got sick of waiting. I suppose I can come in?" Roy's impatience was the measure of his relief.

Dyan moved back a pace, and, as Roy stepped on to the roof, he carefully closed the door.

"Think--if you had come three minutes earlier! He only left me just now--Chandranath."

"And pa.s.sed me in the archway," added Roy with his touch of bravado.

"I've as much right to be in Delhi--and to vary my costume--as your mysteriously potent friend. It's a free country."

"It is fast becoming--not so free." Dyan lowered his voice, as if afraid he might be overheard. "And you don't consider the trouble it might make--for me."

"How about the trouble you've been making for me? What's wrong?"

Dyan pa.s.sed a nervous hand across his eyes and forehead. "Come in. It's getting cold out here," he said, in a repressed voice. Roy followed him across the roof top, with its low parapet and vault of darkening sky, up three steps, into an arcaded room, where a log fire burned in the open hearth. Shabby, unrelated bits of furniture gave the place a comfortless air. On a corner table strewn with leaflets and pamphlets ("Poisoned arrows, up to date!" thought Roy), a typewriter reared its hooded head.

The sight struck a shaft of pain through him. Aruna's Dyan--son of kings and warriors--turning his one skilful hand to such base uses!

"What's wrong?" he repeated with emphasis. "I want a straight answer, Dyan. I've risked something to get it."