eyes of his wife.

"No, he doesn't," admitted Beverly, a trifle aggressively.

"He could stop you, you know," he suggested. Yetive was discreetly
silent.

"But he won't know anything about it," cried Beverly triumphantly.

"I could tell him, you know," said Lorry.

"No, you _couldn't_ do anything so mean as that," announced
Beverly. "You're not that sort."




CHAPTER III

ON THE ROAD FROM BALAK


A ponderous coach lumbered slowly, almost painfully, along the narrow
road that skirted the base of a mountain. It was drawn by four horses,
and upon the seat sat two rough, unkempt Russians, one holding the
reins, the other lying back in a lazy doze. The month was June and all
the world seemed soft and sweet and joyous. To the right flowed a
turbulent mountain stream, boiling savagely with the alien waters of the
flood season. Ahead of the creaking coach rode four horsemen, all
heavily armed; another quartette followed some distance in the rear. At