As the police officer galloped in to the cantonments he believed that he held in his hand the clue to Saloo's identity, for he had found a morsel of writing in the ragged turban of the suicide. If old Razat Sing was the means of delivering others from the usurer's yoke--he had not died in vain. CHAPTER XXXIV The tragic fate of Razat Sing and his blind wife made a little stir for a few days in and around Manora, but, unfortunately, these suicides of despair were becoming common; public sensitiveness was somewhat hardened and callous--familiarity breeds indifference. Razat Sing had hanged himself; his blind wife had gone from darkness to darkness by the aid of a little poisonous root. There was an end of the old couple, and other affairs wafted these two insignificant particles down the dark river of forgetfulness. The great charity ball already mentioned was imminent at Lucknow; it was to be on a grand scale, and held in that notable building, "the Chutter-Munzil," formerly the palace of the kings of Oude. This function would be the brilliant closing event of the cold weather season. Residents from surrounding districts, soldier folk from distant stations, and crowds of tourists, would pour into Lucknow for the occasion, and thus swell the receipts of the fund. Tickets were only ten rupees; the committee had been most carefully selected; everything was to be thoroughly well done, and carried out on a scale of unusual magnitude. Mrs. Lepell, who was one of the patronesses, volunteered to chaperon Verona and Pussy, and had taken rooms at an hotel, where the two girls would be her guests. (Mrs. Chandos, not to be behindhand, had secured somewhat squalid quarters for herself in the abode of a friend, and would be present at the ball, carrying in her train Dominga and Blanche.) This visit was an event for Verona, who had seen nothing of India beyond Manora and Rajahpore. The afternoon of her arrival at the "Royal Hotel" Mrs. Lepell drove the two girls out to see the historic Residency; its grey walls, torn and shattered by shot and shell, were now clothed by the most exquisite white and yellow creepers. The compound, that scene of such desperate bloodshed, was a velvet sward, intersected with neat paths and flowering shrubs. It was only when the sightseers came to the graves, that Tragedy raised her face. From the Residency the party were driven round by Dilkoosha and into the cantonment. Here they saw numbers of people riding and driving; polo was going forward, bands were playing, and in some places the traffic of landaus, dog-carts, ekkas and bullock bandies was so great that the roads were almost blocked. Here, too, were bugle calls, the sounds of cheery English voices, the distant hum of a great city. Here was another India to Manora, with its monotonous stretches of rippling cane, half-naked coolies, and a few red-roofed bungalows, clustered around the factory.