the Gulab, I'll admit. As she turned a clump of crotons she saw me
sitting my horse and drew a gauze scarf across her face to hide it. I
waited, and asked the _chowkidar_ if it were his daughter, and the old
fool said it was the wife of his son; and the girl that he claimed was
his son's wife had the iron bracelet of a Hindu widow on her arm. And
the Gulab wears one--I saw it the night she danced."

A ghastly hush fell upon the three. Barlow was moaning inwardly, "Poor
Bootea!"; Hodson, fingers pressed to both temples, was trying to think
this was all the mistaken outburst of an angry woman. The
strong-faced, honest, fearless soldier sitting in the chair could not
be a traitor--_could not be_.

Suddenly something went awry in the inflamed chambers of Elizabeth's
mind--as if an electric current had been abruptly shut off. She
hesitated; she had meant to say more; but there was a staggering
vacuity.

With an effort she grasped a wavering thing of tangibility, and said:
"I'm going now, father--to give the keys to the butler for breakfast.
You can question Captain Barlow."

Elizabeth turned and left the room; her feet were like dependents,
servants that she had to direct to carry her on her way. She did not
call to the butler, but went to her room, closed the door, flung
herself on the bed, face downward, and sobbed; tears that scalded
splashed her cheeks, and she beat passionately with clenched fist at
the pillow, beating, as she knew, at her heart. It was incredible,
this thing, her feelings.