Major Gascoigne had taken possession of the engineers' house, a little building far away from road and river, perched high among the rhododendrons over the valley, consisting merely of two rooms, verandah and cook-house, and furnished to meet the simple requirements of one man. Philip liked the isolated spot, where he heard nothing but the crow of the jungle cock and the roar of the water. It was one of his favourite halting-places when he came up on inspection duty. No cell could be more solitary, or absolutely out of the track of the world. Here he worked at his book on fortifications, here he kept a store of favourite authors, here he was happy; it was his asylum—his cave. The cave was beautifully situated, and, although it commanded a sweeping view of the neighbouring hills and distant snows, yet, to the cursory eye, the little brown house was almost buried amid rhododendrons, oak and tall tree ferns. The last week in September witnessed many landslips, several accidents, and much rain. Since daybreak the "Engineer Sahib" had been personally superintending the damming of a fissure and the construction of a temporary bridge. Towards three o'clock in the afternoon, tired, mud-stained, and extremely hungry, he set his pony's head towards home. After a long _détour_ they scrambled up the slippery, greasy path, crossed with great tree-roots, and at last reached their destination. Here Gascoigne gave the pony to his attendant, and called out impatiently, "Qui hye." Instead of the usual prompt answer to this summons, the glass door into the verandah opened very slowly and a grey-haired ayah, in a red cloth jacket, appeared and signed to him to be silent. But Gascoigne was not a man to take orders from strangers in his own house, and he walked up the steps, motioned her aside, and entered the sitting-room. There on the shabby cane lounge was extended a fair-haired woman—a mere girl, with one hand under her head, the other hanging limply down, fast, fast asleep. A little cloth jacket was thrown over her feet, a hat with wet feathers lay on his writing-table among all his most sacred papers, and a damp umbrella dripped steadily in a corner. Evidently a traveller who had mistaken his cave for the Dâk Bungalow. This was Gascoigne's first idea. He looked at her a second time, and it struck him that there was something familiar in the shape of the face, the pencilled dark brows, the delicate nostrils, and he experienced a sudden spasm of horror as he realised that he was contemplating—Angel! Angel, whom he believed to be established with her grandmother in Haute Savoy, from whom he had received a cheery letter quite recently. Unquestionably her talent for executing the unexpected was supreme. It bordered on the miraculous. He suddenly recalled Shafto's prophecy that "her future course was incalculable," as he closed the door softly, and, beckoning the ayah to a distance, said: "Where have you come from?"