“How long ago was that?”
They fell to discussion; deciding that it was quite two months.
“Well, then, I ought to be dead by now. The tradition says before the end of the second moon. And even when we were talking about the place, I had already been through it once. I have been through it twice since. The third time it saved our lives, as you know.”
The story of this latter event in its completeness they had agreed to keep to themselves, only giving out that the Gularzai had shrunk from following them into the tangi from superstitious motives.
“I told you I’d prove that superstition nonsensical,” she went on, her eyes dancing with fun. “Well, what have you got to say for yourselves?”
“You’d already been through it before that night, Miss Clive?” said Haslam. “Well, I’m jiggered!”
“Yes. But what about the rule?” she persisted. “I’m not dead yet.”
Snapped Tarleton, “Well, you can’t expect there to be no exception to every rule, can you?”
Hilda had been giving herself over to business of late, for each mail brought her enclosures, bulky and blue, and of unequivocally legal aspect. With such documents she would shut herself up in Tarleton’s den, which he had made over to her for the purpose, and she was so engaged one morning, when Raynier was announced. He had returned to Mazaran the day before, and they had met—in public; but this visit was one of arrangement—of her arrangement.