"Rubbish!" Armstrong knitted his brows at his junior. "Meredith has probably taken the Rajah with him on his rounds. It's happened before. As to Mrs.—Miss Fersen, there are any amount of possible explanations. Her horse may have fallen lame. I've always set my face against this silly craze for riding alone, and now——"
He stopped. The stem of his wine-glass snapped under the sudden pressure of his fingers. The Simla woman gave a little scream and rose to her feet. He frowned at her. The men exchanged glances. The women were curiously still—looking towards the window. Armstrong laughed, mopping up his wine with his napkin. "'Pon my word, we're all suffering from nerves. Absurd. Some sentry——"
But no one listened to him. Compton got up and ran out of the window—down into the garden. They heard scuffling—a muttered exclamation—the sound of something soft and heavy being dragged up the steps. They sat still—waiting. They saw Compton hesitating on the threshold of the light. He was bending down——
"Give me a hand some one, for God's sake!"
George Brabazone pushed back his chair and turned to his assistance. Between them the huddled, shapeless something was pulled into the room. It lay inert. The shadow covered it. One of the men snatched up a light, holding it above his head.
"What is it——?"
"Tristram——"
"What—not——?"
"I don't know—tumbled off his horse. Pull the curtains—get the servants out of the room." Armstrong took over Compton's command. The natives fled noiselessly before his imperative gestures. The curtains were dragged across, shutting out the black, menacing gulf. They were all on their feet now—two brilliant lines of colour—with that blot lying in a pool of mud and rain——
"Give me wine—anything."