tangible and the illusion faded as quickly as it rose and left him
confronted with the brutal truth from which there was no escape.

In the dressing room everything that he needed had been laid out in
readiness for him, and he dressed mechanically with a feverish haste
that struggled ineffectually with a refractory collar stud, and
caused him to execrate heartily the absent valet and his enigmatical
errand. Another ten minutes was lost while he hunted for his watch
and cigarette case which he suddenly remembered were in the coat
that he had left at the little house. Or had he searched genuinely?
Had he not rather been--perhaps unconsciously--procrastinating,
shrinking from the task he had in hand, putting off the evil moment?
He swung on his heel violently and passed out on to the verandah.
But at the head of the steps a vigilant figure rose up, bowing
obsequiously, announcing blandly that breakfast was waiting.

Craven frowned at him a moment until the meaning of the words
filtered through to his tired brain, then he pushed him aside
roughly.

"Oh, damn breakfast!" he cried savagely, and cramming his sun
helmet on his head ran down the garden path to the waiting
rickshaw. It never occurred to him to wonder how it came to be
there at an unusual hour. He huddled in the back of the rickshaw,
his helmet over his eyes. His nerves were raw, his mind running in
uncontrollable riot. The way had never seemed so long. He looked
up impatiently. The rickshaw was crawling. The slow progress and
the forced inaction galled him and a dozen times he was on the
point of calling to the men to stop and jumping out, but he forced
himself to sit quietly, watching the play of their abnormally