"Why?" she stammers feebly, her mind groping in the dark.

"So long as he was faithful to you--so long as he valued what you flung at his feet, I would not wake you from your Elysium. By this I _proved_ the love you discredit. My action should not plunge you into an abyss of woe; but _now_ that he is false--_false as h.e.l.l_----"

"Liar!" breaks in Eleanor hotly; "your miserable accusation is unfounded."

"Wait. When he left you for long days of 'sport,' what do you think was the nature of that chase?"

Eleanor is silent, numbed by dread and despair.

"His game--was a woman, who knew from his lips your whole history. I have seen them together for hours at a time--heard them speak--jest at your expense. But, in spite of this, she was jealous of you, and, but for a bad shot, would have taken your life that day in the jungle, when I killed her horse under her. You see I was guarding you, Eleanor. He has been scheming to go away with her; to desert you as a toy that is broken--a flower which has lost its scent."

She leaps to her feet, and flings open the window.

"You are hoodwinking me with a trumped-up story; it is not true!"

"Hear me out. He is serving you as you treated me. It is retribution.

You forfeited his respect and consideration. He gave you only the brief glamour of his pa.s.sion, which has died, to re-live in the smiles of 'Paulina.'"

"Philip, these lies are dastardly--cruel! You do not know what you are saying."

"You cling hard to your faith!" he retorts savagely, her staunchness to Carol awaking a fever of indignation within him. "Did I ever in the old days deserve that hard term 'liar'?"

She shakes her head. "Oh, no!"

"You are waiting for him to-night, Eleanor. He had promised, I believe, to return?"

She gazes down the slanting road.

"Yes. He is late." Then, with a sudden cry: "And when he comes--oh!

Philip, I had not realised it--your revenge! What can I do to save him? Anything--I care not what! I will go and leave him--I will kill myself here before your eyes, as a ransom! You are mistaken, he is _not_ false to me; any moment he may arrive. Only spare his life, for the love of Heaven!"

She falls on her knees at Philip's feet, beating the air with her hands.

He raises her gently, but firmly.

"You need not look," he says, as her terrified eyes stare out at the moonlit scene, white and ghostly. "Yesterday he wrote to the woman Paulina, making all arrangements for their flight this night. She dropped the letter in the jungle, from a satchel full of shot. It is here."

He holds out the torn envelope, with its broken seal and deadly intelligence.

Eleanor takes it mechanically--as yet she cannot believe--while the sight of the familiar handwriting sends the hot blood coursing freely once more through her brain.

She draws the closely-worded sheet from its resting-place and crosses to the light to scan the text.

Philip watches her face as it bends over the letter. He has struck a match and holds it up to illuminate that fatal message.

Every vestige of life seems to fly from her features. The page swims before her tailing sight, the words become crossed and blurred. She has read enough!

Then she remembers Paulina's fingers have touched this paper, perhaps her lips, and it flutters from Eleanor's hands at the thought, falling silently between her and Philip.

"Now," he cries, "can you grasp my mission? Do you guess why I am here? There was no longer any cause for him to live." Philip throws back his coat, and she sees the shirt beneath it is splashed with blood.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Philip throws back his coat, and she sees the shirt beneath it is splashed with blood.]

He takes her icy hand and draws her towards the verandah.

"I killed him at sunset," he whispers, pointing outwards, "over there, on that far hill. When night came I bore him back to you. Now in the moonlight, down near the well, or to-morrow at dawn, you will find your lover. His set face is looking up from the long gra.s.s, his last word was 'Paulina!'"

Eleanor staggers to the rails, and points towards the well.

She seems struggling to speak, but there is only a low gurgle in her throat.

Philip stands on the steps. "'Help,'" he says abruptly, calling the dog. "Come."

Together the man and beast pa.s.s like visions into the night.

Eleanor crouches away to the far corner of the verandah, her limbs relax, and she huddles herself in a heap on the hard ground, without a cry; without a moan.

Another day breaks gloriously over the East; in the first rays of sunlight Eleanor stirs. With difficulty she rises from her cramped position, a shudder runs over her frame as she walks unsteadily down the steps, in the direction of the well.

The jungle fowl on tree and ground give forth their sharp shrill cries.

The bulbul whistles sweet notes like those of a thrush.

The golden oriole with its bright yellow plumage whirrs as a flash of sunlight through the trees, and the birds at home are singing.

THE END.