In a small Mofussil station such as Cananore, topics of conversation are but scanty. There was a good deal of talk and conjecture, respecting this same panther. Why had Mayne ordered such a prize to be destroyed? Why could he not have given it to someone—if he had a particular down upon the animal?—the Colonel's wife would have been proud to accept its skin.
No satisfactory answer to this was obtained at the time, but later, it became known that Mayne's friend, the coffee planter, had died, as the result of an encounter with a panther; it was conceded that possibly that was the reason of Mayne's agitation, and the order for the destruction of an unusually fine trophy.
Skin or no skin, there was some mystery connected with Mayne's visit to the Neilgherries. Since then, he had been obviously short of money, and given to unwonted economy. He drank cheap claret, refused himself a new rifle, and another polo pony. A hard player like Mayne, found it difficult to manage with less than three. Whatever the trouble was, he did not avoid society; he was popular with women; his good looks and good manners, made him a general favourite. He went to dances and picnics, was conspicuous in gymkhanas, and every afternoon, when nothing was "on," he played rackets or tennis at the club. Once or twice, when a particularly active girl happened to be his tennis partner, he recalled Nancy,—not one of the lot could approach her as far as play was concerned. Who would have believed that her thin brown arm and wrist, was capable of such smashing strokes, and disastrous service?
Mayne had now been three years in India, and never exhibited any intention of taking leave home. Apparently he preferred an excursion into Thibet, or Cashmere. At the back of his mind, he had a conviction, that as long as he remained in the country, he was safe from any awkward developments that might result from the ceremony which had taken place in the drawing-room at Fairplains.
Yet at the same time, he had an impression that some day, like murder, it would all come out,—and there would be a holy row! Meantime he thrust the hateful prospect into the lumber room of his brain; the poignant memories of the last week of Travers' life had now become a little dim. Supposing he had held back, and not suffered himself to be moved by an exceptionally tragic situation: by Mrs. Hicks' observations, and carried away by an almost irresistible impulse? he could have guaranteed an acceptable income to Nancy, which would have left them both free!
Now, they were bound together by that deadly certificate in his despatch box, on which were inscribed the names of Eleanora Nancy Travers, spinster, and Derek Danvers Mayne, bachelor. Nothing but death could release them. Occasionally plunged in contemplation, he would let his mind work; endeavouring to trace some way out of this desperate situation. His thoughts would travel to and fro, as in a maze,—vainly seeking some safe, and honourable exit. Sometimes, during these moods of reflection, his companion for the moment, would wonder at Mayne's abstraction? Once or twice, he had been offered "a penny for his thoughts," but had invariably dismissed the offer with a laugh.
Finally summing up the affair, he assured himself that some day or other—perhaps in twenty years—the whole business must be disclosed. Supposing Nancy wanted to marry someone?—supposing he were to meet the girl, and fall in love with her? what a complication that would be! After all, the present was calm and peaceful, he could discern no clouds on the horizon, and soothed his uneasiness, with the well-worn sedative,—"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."
Such were Mayne's sentiments, when he received a cable from home, informing him that his uncle had met with a serious accident, and begging him to return at once. As there could be but one answer to such an appeal, Mayne instead of taking his intended sixty days' shooting leave into Garwalb, immediately applied for three months to England—on "urgent private affairs."