Such an incident as this may scarcely merit the name of an adventure, but is fraught, as the writer has seen, with consequences very unpleasant. The sais, rolling on the ground and yelling, with a black cap of bees on his head, the horse frantically struggling, the great man only able to rid himself of his despicable foes by rushing to a small tank or pond happily at hand, form together a scene of discomfiture and disaster. At the close of an hour, behold the horse, freed indeed from his tormentors, but trembling as if with ague; the sais, groaning aloud in his pain; and the commissioner, with both cheeks swollen to an unnatural size, and one eye partially closed. Here comes another man with a paper; making a salám, he presents it to Mr. Thole. “Where does this come from?” asks the commissioner with a frown. “From the Padre Sahib,” is the messenger’s reply. “Oh! I had enough of these missionaries last evening,” mutters Mr. Thole; and he is inclined to fling the despatch aside, when the word “Urgent” on the envelope catches his eye. In no mild mood he tears it open to glance at the contents, which are written in a clear, even handwriting, as if to invite perusal. Mr. Thole glances at the signature at the end, “Robert Hartley,” and sits down on the stump against which the wheel of his buggy was smashed, to read whilst awaiting the coming of his riding-horse, for which a smith has at last been found. Mr. Thole begins to read with that sour expression on his damaged face which denotes an inclination to dispute or deny whatever may be written in the paper before him. But, not gradually but almost suddenly, that expression changes to one of interest, mingled with surprise. “This _is_ a strange case, a very extraordinary case,” he mutters. “A locket found in a zenana—a locket the very counterpart of a family memorial possessed by young Mrs. Hartley, with a legible inscription too. And part of a child’s sock, marked with initials. This is strong, decidedly strong corroboration that these rascally natives have really abducted an English child, Miranda Macfinnis, cousin by the maternal side of a lady now in Talwandi!” The commissioner rose from his seat; his national pride was roused. “If this crime can be proved—this offence against the ruling power—these villanous Hindus shall rue it. The case must be investigated without delay. Ho! Mir Sahib!” (a servant answers the call), “send off at once after my servants and tents; call them back. I must be to-morrow at Talwandi.” “Talwandi!” exclaims the astonished man. “I am not accustomed to repeat my orders twice,” is the irritable reply.