husband, who was on duty up at the cantonments. She had been drowned
close to the bungalow in a ranging brown torrent which swept over what a
few hours earlier had been a mere bed of glittering sand. And from that
time the bungalow had been deserted, avoided of all men, a haunted
place, the abode of evil spirits.

Yet it still stood in its desolation, rotting year by year. No native
would approach the place. No Englishman desired it. For it was well away
from the cantonments, nearer than any other European dwelling to the
native village, and undeniably in the hottest corner of all the Ghantala
Valley.

Perhaps its general air of desolation had also influenced the minds of
possible tenants, for Ghantala was a cheerful station, and its
inhabitants preferred cheerful dwelling-places. Whatever the cause, it
had stood empty and forsaken for more than a dozen years.

And then had come Hope and the Magician.

Hope was a dark-haired, bright-eyed English girl, who loved riding as
she loved nothing else on earth. Her twin-brother, Ronald Carteret, was
the youngest subaltern in his battalion, and for his sake, she had
persuaded the Magician that the Ghantala Valley was an ideal spot to
live in.

The Magician was their uncle and sole relative, an old man, wizened and
dried up like a monkey, to whom India was a land of perpetual delight
and novelty of which he could never tire. He was engaged upon a book of
Indian mythology, and he was often away from home for the purpose of
research. But his absence made very little difference to Hope. Her