"Rather. They were talking about the Mehriab affair, and Bracebrydge said something sneering about that poor plucky devil, Campian. You know what a blundering, tactless, offensive beast Bracebrydge can be. Well, he said they were all making too much of the affair, and more than hinted that Campian had only done what he did so as to seize the first opportunity of running away later on. Miss Wymer only answered that she thought she knew one or two who wouldn't have waited for that--they'd have run away at the start. But it was the way she said it, looking him straight in the face all the time. By George, it was great, I can tell you--great. Bracebrydge looked as sick as if he had just been hit in the eye."

"Serve him jolly well right," declared one of the listeners, and his opinion was universally seconded, for Bracebrydge was not popular among those who roosted on the railing.

"I think Miss Cheriton's the prettiest of the two," said the youth who had first spoken. "She's one of the most fetching girls I ever saw in my life."

"Then why don't you make hay while the sun shines?" rejoined another.

"Go and make yourself agreeable--if you can, that is. They've just gone into the library. Go and ask her to play tennis, or something, chappie."

"I think I will." And sliding from the rail with some alacrity, away he went. Those remaining continued their subject.

"Bracebrydge must have been a double-dyed a.s.s to have hit that particular nail on the head. It's my belief he couldn't have hit the wrong one harder, anyway."

"The devil he couldn't!"

"Well, I don't know, mind. Only look at the opportunities they had, thrown almost entirely upon each other up there, for old Jermyn doesn't count. If they hadn't altogether set up a _bundobust_, it was most likely only a question of time."

"_Miss_ Wymer hasn't been to a dance since that affair," struck in another oracle of the rail. "Looks as if there was some fire beneath the smoke. What?"

"That don't follow, either. Mind you, the chap deliberately went to have his throat cut so that the others should be let go, and while his fate is a matter of uncertainty it is only what a nice girl like that would do to keep a bit quiet. She wouldn't care to think, while she was frisking about at dances, that at that very moment they might be hacking the poor chap to pieces."

It so happened that the theory set forth by the last two speakers expressed with very fair accuracy the real state of affairs. Naturally self-contained, and with immense power of control over her feelings, Vivien was able to support the terrible strain of those weeks without-- in popular parlance--giving herself away. And it was a strain. Day and night his image was with her, but always as she had seen him last; calmly and cheerfully delivering himself into the merciless hands of these cruel, marauding fanatics, giving his life for her and hers. Of the old days she dared not even think--and, since this tragedy had come between, they seemed so far away. Small wonder, then, if she refrained from joining in the ordinary round of station gaieties, yet not too pointedly, and she was the better able to do this that, being a comparative stranger in the place, her abstention was ascribed to a natural seriousness of temperament. Even thus, however, it could not entirely escape comment, as we have seen.

She and Nesta Cheriton had become great friends, although as different in temperament as in outward characteristics. In public, at any rate, they were generally about together, and in private, too, seemed to see a good deal of each other. It was almost as though they had some bond in common, and yet Vivien never by word or hint let out the ever present subject of her thoughts to any living soul. She had not quite lost hope, but as the days went by and nothing was heard either of the captive, or of the marauding outlaw who held him, she well nigh did lose it. Both seemed to have vanished into empty air.

For the stipulated ransom had been duly paid. Colonel Jermyn, with the aid of Upward and the head forest guard, had met Umar Khan's envoy--none other than Ihalil Mohammed himself--he who had negotiated the terms.

Great was the amazement and disgust of all when told that the prisoner would not be handed over. It was not in the _bundobust_. Nothing had been said as to the restoration of Campian on payment of the five thousand rupees. The Colonel and Der' Ali stared at each other in blank dismay, for they recognised that this was only too true. No such stipulation had been made, they remembered. But, of course, it had been understood, they put it to the envoy. That wily Baluchi merely shook his head slightly, and repeated--as impa.s.sable as ever, "It was not in the _bundobust_."

Then the Colonel raved and swore. It was treachery, black, infernal treachery. He believed they had murdered their prisoner already, at any rate, not one _pice_ should they get from him until the sahib was handed over safe and sound. Then they should have every _anna_ of it. Not before.

At this Ihalil Mohammed merely elevated one s.h.a.ggy eyebrow, and remarked laconically:

"Sheep are flayed after they are dead, _not before_."

The Colonel stared blankly over the apparent inconsequence of this remark, then, as the fiendish import of it dawned upon him, he lost his temper, and nearly his head. His hand flew to his revolver.

This time Ihalil Mohammed elevated two s.h.a.ggy eyebrows and observed:

"Sheep are flayed _and roasted_ after they are dead--_not before_."

Then he relapsed into his wonted saturnine taciturnity.

The others consulted together. Ihalil seemed hardly interested enough even to watch them. The wily Baluchi knew that the key to the whole situation was in his own hand. He had marked the visible discomfiture produced by his hideous threat. He knew that the stipulated sum would be paid, and that he himself would be suffered to depart with it unmolested--and, indeed, such was the case.

"Is the sahib still alive?" asked the Colonel.

"He is still alive."

"And well?"

"And well."

"Very good. Now then, Der' Ali. Tell this infernal scoundrel to tell his more infernal scoundrel of a chief that if he brings in the sahib safe and well within eight days from, this, and hands him over, we will pay him another five thousand rupees; but if any harm happens to him, then the _Sirkar_ will never rest until he has hung him and every man Jack of the gang--hung 'em in pigskins, by G.o.d, and burnt them afterwards. What does he say to that?"

Der' Ali, being judicious, subst.i.tuted courteous epithets for the naturally explosive ones which his master had directed at Umar Khan, and Der' Ali, being a Moslem himself, refrained from repeating in plain terms so shocking a reference as that of which the blunt Feringhi had not scrupled to make use, subst.i.tuting for it mysterious and sinister hints as to death by hanging under its most dreaded form. Ihalil's reply was characteristically laconic.

"Well, what does he say?" repeated the Colonel testily.

"He say--he hears, _Huzoor_."

"Are they going to bring the sahib back, Der' Ali?"

"He say--he can't say, _Huzoor_," answered the interpreter, having elicited that terse reply.

"Tell him to go to the devil, then," said the Colonel, unable to resist an angry stamp of the foot.

Der' Ali rendered this as--"Go in peace," and Ihalil, uttering an impa.s.sive "Salaam," mounted his camel, and--did so.

They watched the form of the retreating Baluchi, fast becoming a mere white speck in the desert waste with every stride of his camel, and shook their heads despondently. Would these wolves ever release their prey? Bhallu Khan was of a kindred tribe. What did he think of the chances? But the old forester, who, like most barbarians or semi-barbarians, always answer what they imagine the inquirers would like best to hear, replied that he thought the chances were good. All men loved money--even the sahibs would rather have plenty than little-- he interpolated with a whimsical smile. Baluchi loved money too. Umar Khan would probably release his prisoner if plenty of rupees were offered him.

But the eight days became fifteen, and still of the said prisoner there was no sign; and the fortnight grew into weeks, with like result. Then those interested in Campian's fate felt gloomy indeed. They had almost abandoned hope.

But whatever private woes and trials, the world rubs on as usual.

Shalalai at large was not particularly interested in Campian's fate, except as an item of political excitement. It was far more interested in the capture or destruction of Umar Khan than in the rescue or murder of his prisoner; for that bold outlaw had set up something of a scare.

That sort of outbreak was catching among these fierce, fanatical, predatory races, and it struck home. Shooting parties became decidedly nervous, and fewer withal; and those delightful, moonlight bicycling picnics, miles out along the smooth, level, military road, were given up as unsafe--for did not the Brahui villages dotting the plain on either side contain scowling, s.h.a.ggy, sword-wearing ruffians in plenty, and was there not a wave of restlessness heaving through the lot?

Fleming was one of those who decided that his own affairs were of paramount importance to himself; wherefore he continued to pay a.s.siduous court to Nesta Cheriton. But the girl seemed to have altered somehow.

She had grown quite subdued, not to say serious. The old, gay, sparkling high spirits were seldom there. Fleming, turning things over, shook a gloomy head, then dismissed his fears as absurd. Could it be there was anything between Campian and herself? They had perforce been thrown together a lot in Upward's camp--moreover, when he and Bracebrydge had left, they had left the other behind them. Had he improved the shining hour then? Fleming recalled the _tangi_ adventure, and swore to himself; but he soon recovered, and the restoration of his equanimity was effected through the agency of his looking-gla.s.s. It was too d.a.m.ned absurd, he told himself, surveying his really good-looking face and well-knit soldierly figure--that any girl could prefer a dry old stick like Campian, and a mere civilian at that--so, giving his gallant moustache an additional twist or two eyewards, he concluded to start off and place the matter beyond a doubt.

But on reaching Upward's bungalow ill chance awaited him. Nesta was not alone, and her mood was unpropitious. What was that? He could hardly believe his ears. She was depreciating--yes, actually depreciating--the British Army.

"I don't know what is the use of all these soldiers here in Shalalai,"

she was saying as he came in. "Thousands of them. How many are there, Captain Fleming? How many soldiers have we got in Shalalai?"

"Oh, about five thousand--of all sorts."

"About five thousand," she repeated, "horse, foot, and artillery, and yet a dozen ragged Pathans can race about the country, killing people at will."

"That everlasting Umar Khan, I suppose?" said Fleming, somewhat shortly, for he was not a little nettled at her disparaging, almost jeering, tone.

"I think he _is_ going to be the 'everlasting' Umar Khan," she retorted quickly. "Why don't some of you try and catch him, Captain Fleming?

There are enough of you, at any rate."

"We must wait for orders, Miss Cheriton," he replied stiffly.

"If I were a man, and a soldier, I wouldn't wait for orders if there was anything of that sort to be done," she retorted, with delightful inconsistency. "I'd get leave to raise a troop, and I'd never rest till I brought in that Ghazi. All our jolly bicycle picnics are knocked on the head, and then Mr Upward has constantly to go into camp, and of course Mrs Upward will insist on going with him, and--I'm very fond of her."

Fleming, who had been twirling his moustache eyeward somewhat viciously, suddenly quit that refuge for the perturbed. An idea had struck him.

By George, it was not merely on Campian's account she wanted Umar Khan run to earth! Vastly relieved, he said: