They struck at the woman, one after the other, and she leaped out of their range, swift and as supple as they. Instantly then she joined in the dance, with the snakes striking right and left at her. Left and right she swayed to avoid them, far more gracefully than a matador avoids the bull and courting a deadlier peril than he--poisonous, two to his one. As she danced she whirled both arms above her head and cried as the were-wolves are said to do on stormy nights. Some unseen hand drew a blind over the great window and an eerie green-and-golden light began to play from one end of the room, throwing the dancers into half-relief and deepening the mystery. Sweet strange scents were wafted in from under the silken hangings. The room grew cooler by unguessed means. Every sense was treacherously wooed. And ever, in the middle of the moving light among the languorous dancers, the snakes pursued the woman! “Do you do this often?” wondered King, in a calm aside to Rewa Gunga, turning half toward him and taking his eyes off the dance without any very great effort. Rewa Gunga clapped his hands and the dance ceased. The woman spirited her snakes away. The blind was drawn upward and in a moment all was normal again with the punkah swinging slowly overhead, except that the seductive smell remained, that was like the early-morning breath of all the different flowers of India. “If she were here,” said the Rangar, a little grimly--with a trace of disappointment in his tone--“you would not snatch your eyes away like that! You would have been jolly well transfixed, my friend! These--she--that woman--they are but clumsy amateurs! If she were here, to dance with her snakes for you, you would have been jolly well dancing with her, if she had wished it! Perhaps you shall see her dance some day! Ah,--here is Ismail,” he added in an altered tone of voice. He seemed relieved at sight of the Afridi. Bursting through the glass-bead curtains at the door, the great savage strode down the room, holding out a telegram. Rewa Gunga looked as if he would have snatched it, but King's hand was held out first and Ismail gave it to him. With a murmur of conventional apology King tore the envelope and in a second his eyes were ablaze with something more than wonder. A mystery, added to a mystery, stirred all the zeal in him. But in a second he had sweated his excitement down. “Read that, will you?” he said, passing it to Rewa Gunga. It was not in cypher, but in plain everyday English. “She has not gone North,” it ran. “She is still in Delhi. Suit your own movements to your plans.” “Can you explain?” asked King in a level voice. He was watching the Rangar narrowly, yet he could not detect the slightest symptom of emotion. “Explain?” said the Rangar. “Who can explain foolishness? It means that another fat general has made another fat mistake!” “What makes you so certain she went North?” King asked.