Why had he gone?  That was the question that vexed Muriel’s soul through the long hours that followed her return to the Residency.  Lying sleepless on her bed, she racked her weary brain for an answer to the riddle, but found none.  Her brief doubt regarding him had long since fled.  She knew with absolute certainty that it was Nick and no other who had yelled those furious words, who had made that panther-spring, who had leaned over her and withdrawn the revolver from her hold, telling her softly not to cry.  But why had he gone just then when she needed him most?

Surely by now her message had reached him!  Surely he knew that she wanted him, that she had lowered what he had termed her miserable little rag of pride to tell him so!  Then why was he tormenting her thus ­playing with her as a cat might play with a mouse?  Was he taking his revenge for all the bitter scorn she had flung at him in the past?  Did he think to wring from her some more definite appeal?  Ah, that was it!  Like a searchlight flashing inwards, she remembered her promise to him uttered long ago against her will ­his answering oath.  And she knew that he meant to hold her to that promise ­that he would exact the very uttermost sacrifice that it entailed; and then perchance ­she shivered at the unendurable thought ­he would laugh his baffling, enigmatical laugh, and go his way.

But this was unbearable, impossible.  She would sooner die than suffer it.  She would sooner ­yes, she would almost sooner ­break her promise.

And then, to save her from distraction, the other side of the picture presented itself, that reverse side which he had once tauntingly advised her to study.  If he truly loved her, he would not treat her thus.  It would not gratify him to see her in the dust.  If he still cared, as Daisy had assured her he did, it would not be his pleasure to make her suffer.  But then again ­oh, torturing question! ­had that been so, would he have gone at that critical moment, would he have left her, when a look, a touch, would have sufficed to establish complete understanding?

Drearily the hours dragged away.  The heat was great, and just before daybreak a thunder-storm rolled up, but spent itself without a drop of rain.  It put the finishing touches to Muriel’s restlessness.  She rose and dressed, to sit by her window with her torturing thoughts for company, and awaited the day.

With the passing of the storm a slight draught that was like a shudder moved the scorched leaves of the acacias in the compound, quivered a little, and ceased.  Then came the dawn, revealing mass upon mass of piled cloud hanging low over the earth.  The breaking of the monsoon was drawing very near.  There could be no lifting of the atmosphere, no relief, until it came.

She leaned her aching head against the window-frame in a maze of weariness unutterable.  Her heart was too heavy for prayer.

Minutes passed.  The daylight grew and swiftly overspread all things.  The leaden silence began to be pierced here and there by the barking of a dog, the crowing of a cock, the scolding of a parrot.  Somewhere, either in the compound or close to it, some one began to whistle ­a soft, tentative whistle, like a young blackbird trying its notes.

Muriel remained motionless, scarcely heeding while it wove itself into the background of her thoughts.  She was in fact hardly aware of it, till suddenly, with a great thrill of astonishment that shook her from head to foot, a wild suspicion seized her, and she started up, listening intently.  The fitful notes were resolving into a melody ­a waltz she knew, alluring, enchanting, compelling ­the waltz that had filled in the dreadful silences on that night long ago when she had fought so desperately hard for her freedom and had prevailed at last.  But stay!  Had she prevailed?  Had she not rather been a captive in spite of it all ever since?

On and on went the haunting waltz-refrain, now near, now far, now summoning, now eluding.  She stood gripping the curtain till she could bear it no longer, and then with a great sob she mustered her resolution; she stepped out upon the verandah, and passed down between shrivelled trailing roses to the garden below.

The tune ceased quite suddenly, and she found herself moving through a silence that could be felt.  But she would not turn back then.  She would not let herself be discouraged.  She had been frightened so often when there had been no need for fear.

On she pressed to the end of the path till she stood by the high fence that bordered the road.  She could see no one.  The garden lay absolutely deserted.  She paused, hesitating, bewildered.

At the same instant from the other side of the fence, almost as if rising from the ground at her feet, a careless voice began to hum ­a cracked, tuneless, unmistakable voice, that sent the blood to her heart with a force that nearly suffocated her.

“Nick!” she said, almost in a whisper.

He did not hear her evidently.  His humming continued with unabated liveliness.

“Nick!” she said again.

Still no result.  There was nothing in the least dramatic in the situation.  It might almost have been described as ludicrous, but the white-faced woman in the compound did not find it so.

She waited till he had come to a suitable stopping place, and then, before he could renew the melody, she rapped with nervous force upon the fence.

There fell a most unexpected silence.

She broke it with words imploring, almost agonised.  “Nick!  Nick!  Come and speak to me ­for Heaven’s sake!”

His flippant voice greeted her at once in a tone of cheerful inquiry.  “That you, Muriel?”

Her agitation began to subside of itself.  Nothing could have been more casual than his question.  “Yes,” she said in reply.  “Why are you out there?  Why don’t you come in?”

“My dear girl, ­at this hour!” There was shocked reproof in the ejaculation.  Nick was evidently scandalised at the suggestion.

Muriel lost her patience forthwith.  Was it for this that she had spent all those miserable hours of fruitless heart-searching?  His trifling was worse than ridiculous.  It was insufferable.

“You are to come in at once,” she said, in a tone of authority.

“What for?” said Nick.

“Because ­because ­” She hesitated, and stopped, her face burning.

“Because ­” said Nick encouragingly.

“Oh, don’t be absurd!” she exclaimed in desperation.  “How can I possibly talk to you there?”

“It depends upon what you want to say,” said Nick.  “If it is something particularly private ­” He paused.

“Well?” she said.

“You can always come to me, you know,” he pointed out.  “But I shouldn’t do that, if I were you.  It would be neither dignified nor proper.  And a girl in your position, dearest Muriel, cannot be too discreet.  It is the greatest mistake in the world to act upon impulse.  Let me entreat you to do nothing headlong.  Take another year or so to think things over.  There are so many nice men to choose from, and this absurd infatuation of yours cannot possibly last.”

“Don’t, Nick!” Muriel’s voice held a curious mixture of mirth and sadness.  “It ­it isn’t a bit funny to talk like that.  It isn’t even particularly kind.”

“Ye gods!” said Nick.  “Who wants to be kind?”

“Not you, evidently,” she told him with a hint of bitterness.  “You only aim at being intelligent.”

“Well, you’ll admit I hit the mark sometimes,” he rejoined.  “I’m like a rat, eh?  Clever but loathsome.”

She uttered a quivering laugh.  “No, you are much more like an eagle, waiting to strike.  Why don’t you, I wonder, and ­and take what you want?”

Nick’s answering laugh had a mocking note in it.  “Oh, I can play Animal Grab as well as anybody ­better than most,” he said modestly.  “But I don’t chance to regard this as a suitable occasion for displaying my skill.  Uninteresting for you, of course, but then you are fond of running away when there is no one after you.  It’s been your favourite pastime for almost as long as I have known you.”

The sudden silence with which this airy remark was received had in it something tragic.  Muriel had sunk down on a garden-bench close at hand, lacking the strength to go away.  It was exactly what she had expected.  He meant to take his revenge in his own peculiar fashion.  She had laid herself open to this, and mercilessly, unerringly, he had availed himself of the opportunity to wound.  She might have known!  She might have known!  Had he not done it again and again?  Oh, she had been a fool ­a fool ­to call him back!

Through the wild hurry of her thoughts his voice pierced once more.  It had an odd inflection that was curiously like a note of concern.

“I say, Muriel, are you crying?”

“Crying!” She pulled herself together hastily.  “No!  Why should I?”

“I can tell you why you shouldn’t,” he answered whimsically.  “No one ever ought to cry before breakfast.  It’s shocking for the appetite and may ruin the complexion for the rest of the day.  Besides, ­you’ve nothing to cry for.”

“Oh, don’t be absurd!” she flung back again almost fiercely.  “I’m not crying!”

“Quite sure?” said Nick.

“Absolutely certain,” she declared.

“All right then,” he rejoined.  “That being so, you had better dry your eyes very carefully, for I am coming to see for myself.”