"I was that native," said Colonel Ross-Ellison.
"You," whispered Mrs. Dearman. "You," and scanned his face intently.
"Yes. I. I am half a native. My father was a Pathan. He——"
"What?" asked the woman hoarsely, drawing away. "What? What are you saying?"
"I am half Pathan—my father was a Pathan and my mother an Australian squatter's daughter."
"Go," shrieked Mrs. Dearman, springing to her feet. "Go. You wretch! You mean, base liar! To cheat me so! To pretend you were a gentleman. Leave my house! Go! You horrible—mongrel—you——. To take me in your arms! To make love to me! To kiss me! Ugh! I could die for shame! I could die——"
The face of the man grew terrible to see. There was no trace of the West in it, no sign of English ancestry, the face of a mad, blood-mad Afghan.
"We will both die," he gasped, and took her by the throat.
* * * * *
A few minutes later a Pathan in the dirty dress of his race fled from Colonel Ross-Ellison's bungalow in Cantonments and took the road to the city.