"A rag now. The lemon satin only fit for patchwork. There is not even enough left to make a sofa cushion. It was all done in about half-an-hour—and with a huge pair of dirzee's scissors." "But who did it?" cried her listener, breathlessly. "Have you no suspicions?" "No, that is the strange part of it; not a soul was seen or heard about the premises. All the doors in the verandah were wide open, the chokedar was on duty, and he saw no one." "Then what does the ayah say?" inquired Mrs. Rattray judicially. "Oh, she vows it was an evil spirit, and if she had not been idling in her godown, but had come in directly the visitors had left, this frightful affair would not have happened." Here Mrs. Dawson's voice became husky; however, she soon recovered her self-possession, and continued, "Nothing was taken—no, not even an inch of ribbon—everything is there. So it was no thief. My husband will have it that it was Captain Moore's monkey." Mrs. Rattray drew a long breath. At last she inquired, with studied deliberation: "And what is your own opinion?" "I believe it was the work of some one who knew more about clothes than a dumb animal," responded the victim of the outrage; "and yet, it is like a monkey's trick, so unnecessary, and so mischievous." "So wicked, I call it," cried Mrs. Rattray. "I must say you are bearing it marvellously well. It is more than I could do. I have no fortitude." "What is the good of worrying? The thing is done; no amount of worrying will restore my pretty frocks, and I cannot afford to replace them for some time; that lemon satin cost forty guineas, and I'd be ashamed to tell you what I paid for the lilac tea-gown." "You have no clue?" reiterated Mrs. Rattray. "Unfortunately, I have not even that small consolation. Monkey or demon, it left no trace. Well now, I must be going—the sun is getting so strong I have a dreadful headache as it is." And Mrs. Dawson went sadly down the steps, crawled into her carriage, and was driven away. But Mrs. Rattray lingered yet awhile, despite the temperature, in order to discuss the tragedy with Mrs. Jones. Ere they separated, she said, "How pleased Mrs. Wilkinson will be! She will have it all her own way now." "Yes," assented her companion, "she lives to dress, and dresses to live—it is only her clothes that hold her to earth. She is a mere shadow. Don't you think she looks frightfully ill, and that it is disgraceful that Colonel Wilkinson has kept her and the children down for three hot weathers? I declare it is next door to murder, and if she dies he ought to be hanged." "She wants a change badly," admitted Mrs. Rattray, "but this news will act as a restorer, equal to two months' hill air."