“Not when you remember that all his correspondence is overlooked by Aunt Mina.” “And she always pretended to be so fond of me--and now, as far as she is concerned, I may drop into the pit.” “Well, you and I will drop down together,” I declared. “Keep up your heart--they say the troubles we most fear are those that never happen.” Alas, the dreaded event arrived only too soon. I heard of the date from my kind friend Colonel Lakin. The members assembled, and sat in the regimental ante-room. On the first day the business was chiefly technical and formal; the second held Ronnie’s fate, and it seemed to me to be as long as an average week. I had declined to go for my usual evening drive, but waited within doors for the return of Colonel Lakin, who would bring us the result of the finding. It was late when he returned to Begumpett and the wheels of his dog-cart rumbled under the lofty porch. Mrs. Lakin was awaiting him in the veranda, but I was too anxious and shaken to venture beyond my room. In a condition of breathless tension I heard him enter the drawing-room and exchange a few words with his wife. Rooms in the Madras Presidency are merely separated by thick curtains, with a wide space open at the top, and as I overheard her sharp exclamation I was a little prepared when she came to me with a troubled face and said: “Dear child, I don’t know _how_ I am to tell you, but they have found your brother guilty of the misappropriation of regimental funds----” She paused, and the tears ran down her cheeks as she added in a broken voice: “They have given him two years’ imprisonment.” As soon as I had grasped the real meaning of this speech I seemed to feel as if I were crumbling to pieces, and sank on the ground in a dead faint. CHAPTER XXIV THE FLIGHT As a special favour I was granted permission to have an interview with Ronnie before he was removed, not to “Windsor Castle,” as Secunderabad jail was nicknamed--for the regiment had protested--but to Bangalore, a second-class establishment. “I wish to goodness they were going to _hang_ me!” was the first thing Ronnie said, and there was agony in his voice. “I swear I do--only for you and Uncle. Well, Eva, you must go home and try to make the best of things.” “What! and leave you out here?” I cried. “No, indeed, I shall live at Bangalore until your time is up.” “Now that is the very craziest nonsense; you must return to Torrington and marry Falkland.” For the moment I failed to think of an appropriate answer. Why remind poor Ronnie that as the sister of a convict I could never be Brian’s wife, or presume to enter his proud and exclusive family? “I do not wish to marry,” I muttered at last, and then hastily turned the subject by asking him if he wanted money.