CHAPTER VII.
ARREST EVADED.
The transcontinental express was speeding on its way along the banks of the mighty River Ganges, between Agra and Benares, on a dark night at the beginning of the rainy season. On reaching Allahabad two English officers boarded the train, and on displaying their tickets were shown to their places in one of the three roomy compartments of the luxuriously appointed sleeping-cars.
The lamp was shaded by a green silk blind, and the hermetically closed gauze musquito curtains of one of the upper berths indicated that it was tenanted by a sleeping traveler.
Not having very far to go, the new-comers stretched themselves on their couches without undressing and began to converse in a low tone of voice.
“Have you heard about this terrible business at Baroda?” inquired the taller of the two.
“No,” replied the other. “I am only just down from the hills and have hardly seen a newspaper or spoken to a civilized being since we landed at Bombay.”
“Well,” continued the former, “do you remember that young German Count whom we had on board on our voyage out and who‘rooked’ us so terribly at cards?”
“By Jove, I should think I did! Why, he won a couple of hundred off me. Never saw such infernal luck. Wasn't his name Dalberg or Waldberg, or something of the kind? He was awfully spooney on old Fitzpatrick's pretty daughter, now that I think of it. What's become of the fair Florence?”
“She's dead, poor girl.”