"No; an officer in uniform, a strange uniform not worn now, comes running in with a drawn sword, and chases a pretty lady from room to room. She wears a white muslin dress, and black satin shoes. He kills her in the front verandah—and her screams are awful."
"Dear me, Angel, what a blood-curdling tragedy! but you don't mean to say you believe it?"
"Oh, yes; Ibrahim says it is well known. There is another—I heard Mrs. Jones telling it to mother, and she said she knew it was true. Shall I go on?"
"Yes, if you like—it is quite an Indian night's entertainment."
"Well," beginning in a formal little voice, "some gentlemen were driving up from the station; they were very late, and they saw a mess house all lit up, and the compound packed with carriages and bullock bandies, and they said, 'Why, it is a big ball, and we never heard a word about it.' So they stopped on the road and looked on. They could see right into the room, and there were crowds of people dancing—but the strange thing was, there was not one face they knew."
"Well, I'm not surprised at that," exclaimed her listener derisively.
"Please don't interrupt—they drove on after a while——"
"They ought to have gone in to supper."
"Philip!" she expostulated. "Next morning they asked about the great ball in the cavalry lines, and people thought they were joking; there had not been a dance for weeks, but these men were quite positive, and they rode down to have a look at the house. It had not been used for years and years, and was crammed with rubbish and old broken furniture; the compound was all grass and weeds, and there was not a trace or mark of a carriage."
"And what did they make of that?" inquired Gascoigne.