The verandah darkened silently after she left it. Every now and again a puff of wind rattled the dry pods of the _sirus_ trees, making them give out a faint crackle like that of a scaled viper coiled watchfully in a corner. Kunder, in _his_ corner, sate up keenly as a snake does. There was a louder crackle of a stealthy footstep. "Is it well?" came a stealthy voice. "If Fate wills," replied Kunder, sinking back again to sloth. A stealthy hand reached out a tiny paper packet wound with unspun silk. "The sleep-giver--from the Master--it is fresh and good." "There is no need for sleep-giving," replied Kunder, passively. "The _mem_ is drunk with the love-philtre women crave. I know their ways"--he gave a little soft laugh. "She will not return to-night. So, at dawn, I and the jewels will be--with the Master--if Fate so wills." "Why should She _not_ will?" Kunder laughed again. "Who knows what Fate _may_ will?" He looked out, when the stealthy footstep had gone, at the dusty trees that were growing ghostly in the twilight, and told himself again that none knew. Had _he_ known when, as a lad, he fought against the Sahibs, that one day the death of a Sahib's five-year-old son would be to him as the death of his own child? Had _he_ known when that nursling's red-gold curls--so like Boy's curls--lay confidingly on his breast, that one day he would be thief--perhaps murderer? No! it was as Fate willed. He was, as ever, in Her hands to-night. Another footstep! not stealthy this time, but hurried even in its measured military rhythm. It was Hirabul Khan, the disgraced native officer, seeking an appeal to Colonel Gould before the limitations of an open arrest made it necessary for him to return to his quarters. "Yea, he was here!" replied Kunder, cynically. "He is ever here--after the _mem!_ Where hides the doe thither comes the buck!" Hirabul twirled his moustache fiercely. "Keep thy tongue off thy betters, scum of the bazaars, or I break thy every bone. I give thee womenkind in general--but _this_ one is different. Whither hath he gone? for I must see him." "No need," retorted Kunder, spitefully. "Thy pottage is cooked already. He told the _mem_ so but now. 'No promotion,' said he--I know their speech. And she--" "Base-born!--and she?" "She laughed, as I do--scum of the bazaars! Ha, ha!" A devilish malignity had seized on him; he chuckled even while Hirabul shook him like a rat. "Liar! Cur! Whither hath he gone?" "To the church--with the _mem!_ Thou wilt see! 'No promotion,' said he; and she--" With a curse Hirabul flung the chuckler from him, and strode away into the growing darkness. The church stood--after the manner of Indian churches--in a garden, and on the wide sweep of gravel round it carriages were awaiting the owners, who were busy within. The Colonel's dogcart was among them. So he was there, sure enough.