his time is wild with curiosity, and as Carol hastens down
the hill, the letter in his hand, she follows stealthily at a discreet
distance.

"Perhaps he will give it himself to the devil. Ah, the poor Sahib!"
she mutters.

Quinton never pauses till he is out of sight of the bungalow; then
turning to his right he places the sealed envelope in a crevice of a
rock, hidden from sight.

Quamina watches wonderingly the post-box of the devil.

She marks the spot in her mind's eye, and fearing detection hurries
back unobserved.

For the rest of the day she thinks of nothing but the Sahib's letter,
and its strange hiding place. She pictures the "Nats" surrounding the
spot, and bearing it in triumph to their chief.

She watches her master curiously, but by no sign does he reveal that
anything unusual has occurred, save that he laughs more frequently, and
seems as light-hearted and high spirited as a boy.

"Maybe he has paid the devil off," Quamina surmises.

* * * * *

Captain Stevenson and Major Short ride over, much to Eleanor's delight,
who enjoys a chat with the outer world as keenly as Carol.

She longs once again to hear Major Short's melodious voice, and
bringing her guitar, begs for "Mandalay."

But he shakes his head.

"I shall tire you of the one song," he declares.

"Not when it is the favourite," she protests. "Only four lines, if you
will, or a single bar of the tune. I love the sad refrain."

He follows her on to the verandah. Quinton and Capt. Stevenson are
talking and smoking within.

They catch the words between the pauses in their conversation:

"Ship me somewhere east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
Where there ain't no ten Commandments, and a man can raise a thirst.
For the temple bells are callin' and it's there that I would be,
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea."

"Dreadful morals!" laughs Captain Stevenson.

"Do _you_ love the East?" asks Eleanor, as Major Short lays aside the
guitar.

"Yes, well enough, but I get terribly homesick at times. I long to
draw round a huge log fire in the old hall at home on a still winter's
evening, with the shutters shut and the curtains drawn, and my feet on
the fender. No one has any conception of the bliss of those long,
luxurious hours over the flame and the coal. Those who have it don't
appreciate it. Imagine yourself nipped by a biting frost coming
suddenly in to such a sc