"I'll be steppin' townwards now, sir," he said timidly, keeping his eyes fixed on the rigid face. Mechanically Alfred Rayner drew from his small travelling satchel the bag of rupees, and held it out to the clerk, whose long thin fingers closed upon it. Without waiting to count the money he hurried off across the grass, never halting till he was well clear of the Shrine of Kali. Then he sat down under one of the oil lamps which skirted the road. "I wonder if he's given me up to our bargain," he muttered. "Shouldn't wonder if he's divided it by half seeing he took my prime bit of news thatt bad. Oh my gracious me, to think of his turning up his nose 'cause Mr. Morpeth was his father, and him not fit to black his boots, for all his airs and fine clothes! I saw well the boss didn't seem to think much of him. Yes," he added, with a gratified start, after counting the money. "I declare, the hundred rupees is here all right. My gracious, some folks be fools and no mistake!" Then he jumped up and proceeded to walk home with brisk steps. How long Alfred Rayner stood in the shadow of Kali's Shrine he never could have told, nor would he have wished to recall. Waves of misery seemed to roll over him. For long he could not steady his thoughts, and when he partially succeeded, his fury only grew apace. He saw it all now, he said to himself. From his very birth he had been the cruel sport of an evil fate! How he recognised his Aunt Flo in the touches the clerk had given! Yes, she _was_ dark, and used to delight in recounting how she had been a beautiful brunette in her day, though she always dwelt with complacency on his being a fair-skinned boy! He recalled that more than once since his return to India he had been haunted by a subconscious feeling that there might be a strain of the hated half-caste blood in his veins. It was that fear which he had hardly allowed to cross his mind which had proved the origin of his attitude towards the whole class, while to David Morpeth his hatred had amounted to an obsession. Never could he behold the man without a sense of bitter annoyance which he knew full well, had found vent on more than one occasion. He recalled that evening when he had almost trampled on him as he was driving home in his mail-phaeton--and Cheveril's remonstrance. The whole scene sprang vividly into his memory. In his impotent rage he wished the hoofs of his Australians had trampled the life out of him that night. And again when he had crossed his path on the steps of his own house--ah, he remembered it well. It had been the occasion of his first quarrel with Hester.