"It really has been splendid!" she heard Travers say in her ear. "Things went just like clockwork. Five minutes' conversation got the whole clubhouse out of him, and what you managed in your quarter of an hour, goodness knows. You are a clever woman and no mistake!" "Please--don't!" she burst out irritably. "Hullo! What's the matter? What are you so cross about?" "I'm not cross--only tired, tired, tired and sick of it all. Do drive on!" Far behind them a solitary figure stood on the broad steps of the palace, amidst the dying splendors of the evening and gazed in the direction which the merry procession had taken. A long time it had stood there, motionless, passive, the fine husk of the soul which had wandered out into a new world of hope and possibilities following the woman whose hand had flung the gates wide for him to enter in. Another figure crept out of the shadows and drew near. Twisted and bent, it stood beside the bold, upright form and lifted its face, hate-filled, to the pale light of the stars. "Nehal Singh, Nehal Singh--oh, my son!" The prince turned coldly. "Is it thou? Hast thou a dagger in thy hand?" "I have no dagger--would to God I had! Nehal Singh, I have seen mine enemy's face." "How meanest thou? Thy enemy is dead." "Nevertheless, his face is among the living. As a servant, I crept among the strangers, and saw him straight in the eyes. He has grown younger, but it is he. It is the body of the son, but the soul of his father in his eyes--and, father or son, their blood is poison to me." Nehal Singh knit his brows. "Knowest thou his name?" "Ay, now I know his name. It came back to me when I saw his face. Stafford he was called--Stafford!" He crept closer, his thin hand fell like a vise on Nehal's arm. "Kill him!" he whispered. "Kill him--the son of thy father's betrayer!" Nehal Singh shook himself free. "I can not," he answered proudly, and a warm thrill of enthusiasm rang in his voice. "I can not. They are all my brothers. I can not take my brother's blood." With a moan of anger the twisted figure crept back into the shadow, and once more Nehal Singh stood alone. Unconsciously he had accepted and proclaimed Beatrice Cary's ideal as his own. The hour of bloodshed was gone, mercy and justice called him in its stead. And in that acceptance of a new era his gaze pierced through the obscurity into a light beyond. The jungle which had bound his life was gone; all hindrances, all gulfs of hatred and revenge, were overthrown and bridged. The world of the Great People stood open to him, and to them he held out the casteless hand of love and fellowship. CHAPTER IX CHECKED