nd then--the Lake, that would never give up its secret or
its dead. Siri Chandranath would disappear from his world, like a stone
flung into a river; and India would be a cleaner place without him.

He knew himself hampered, if it came to a struggle. But--tcha! the man
was a coward. Let the gods but deliver his victim into that one
purposeful hand of his--and the end was sure.

Near the Palace, he deserted Bijli, Son of Lightning; tethered him
securely and spoke a few words in his ear, while the devoted creature
nuzzled against him, as who should say, 'What need of speech between me
and thee'? Then--following Roy's directions--he made his way cautiously
up the hillside, where the arch showed clear in the moon. If Chandranath
had been injured or stupefied, he would probably not have gone far.

His surmise proved correct. His stealthy approach well-timed. The
guardian gods of Amber, it seemed, were on his side. For there, on the
fallen slab, crouched a shadow, bowed forward; its head in its hands.

"Must have been stunned," he thought. Patently the gods were with him.
Had he been an Englishman, the man's hurt would probably have baulked
him of his purpose. But Dyan Singh, Rajput, was not hampered by the
sportman's code of morals. He was frankly out to kill. His brain worked
swiftly, instinctively: and swift action followed....

Out of the sheltering shadow he leapt, as the cheetah leaps on its prey:
the long knife gripped securely in his teeth. Before Chandranath came to
his senses, the steel-spring grasp was on his throat, stifling the yell
of terror at Roy's supposed return....

The tussle was short and silent. Within three minutes Dyan had his man
down; arms and body pinioned between his powerful knees, that his one
available hand might be free to strike. Then, in a low fierce rush, he
spoke: "Yes--it is I--Dyan Singh. You told me often--strike, for the
Mother. 'Who kills the body kills naught.' I strike for the Mother
_now_."

Once--twice--the knife struck deep; and the writhing thing between his
knees was still.

He did not altogether relish the weird journey down to the shore of the
Lake; or the too close proximity of the limp burden slung over his
shoulder. But his imagination did not run riot, like Roy's: and no
qualms of conscience perturbed his soul. He had avenged, tenfold,
Aruna's injury. He had expiated, in drastic fashion, his own aberration
from sanity. It was enough.

The soft 'plop' and splash o