"Oh, yes," admitted her implacable adversary; "Angel's jobs are generally on a large scale." "She steals off every morning almost before light," resumed her defender. "What is the ayah about, to allow her to prowl at such an hour?" "Oh, the ayah allows her to go her own way now; she can't control her," confessed her cousin. "No, nor anyone else," muttered Shafto. "Look here," he added suddenly, "I'll tell you something, Phil. That child is going to be a beauty." "Nonsense—not she. You are mad about beauty," rejoined his friend contemptuously. "Yes, she is, and something out of the ordinary, too, if I am any judge. This, I imagine, will complicate matters. Oh, my poor old boy, I wouldn't be in _your_ shoes for a thousand pounds!" CHAPTER XII ANGEL IMPARTS A SECRET IT was the evening before Angel's departure for England. Her luggage was carefully labelled, her roll of wraps was strapped, all arrangements were complete. She was to travel under the neatly trimmed wing of Mrs. Dawson, leaving Ramghur at dawn. Gascoigne had intended accompanying his charge to Bombay, but duty could not spare him—no, not even to escort her to the railway station; he had just received an urgent telegram which called him away that night, and had walked over to take leave of Angel, followed by the three. They were all pacing up and down Colonel Wilkinson's desolate verandah, the man and child side by side, the dogs in close attendance. It was a cool evening in the rains, and the sun had recently set in a blaze of dramatic magnificence. "Now, Angel," said the young man after a short silence, "you are going to be a credit to me, I know." "Yes, I am," she answered with superb self-confidence; "I'll do anything you like, only tell me what I am to do." "Think three times before you speak," he suggested. "Oh, I shall hate that," she rejoined with a shrug. "But you know you often blurt out things that you really don't mean, and that get you into trouble." "Um—yes," she admitted with a pout, "and what else?" "Never be afraid to speak the truth." "I'm not—not a little bit," she proclaimed. "Mind you stick to that—it's more than most of your elders can say. You will write to me every week, and let me know how you get on?" "Yes; and you will answer my letters—they will be the only ones I shall get." "You may be sure I shall write, and the dogs, too; they shall send you their photographs." "Oh, Philip," she exclaimed, "how I wish you were coming home before two long years! I shall mark off the weeks till I see you, beginning to-morrow; and I'll save up every single one of my secrets to tell you." "I don't think they will give you much trouble." "Oh, won't they? I know quantities of secrets. Shall I tell you one now?" "Yes, if you like," he rejoined indifferently, "as long as it is your own property; I don't want to listen to other people's affairs." "But this one is my own, my very own—Philip. You must promise me not to tell anyone _ever_."