In Travers' pitcher it had become kaleidoscopic, only saved from dire confusion by one steady, consistent color, which tinged and killed by its brilliancy the hundred other rainbow fragments. Such was life for him--such at least it had become--a gay chaos in which the one important thing was himself; a game, partly instructive, partly amusing, with no rules save that the player is expected to win. Of course, as in all matters, a certain order, or appearance of order, had to be maintained; but Travers believed, and thought every one else believed, that it was a mere "appearance," and that, as in the childish game of "cheating," the card put on the table has not always the face it is affirmed by the player to possess. Doubtless it is sometimes an honest card--Travers himself played honest cards very often--but that is part of the game, part of the cheating, one might be tempted to say. A suspicious opponent becomes shy of accusing a player who has been able to refute a previous accusation, and those people whose doubts had been aroused by one of Travers' transactions, and had been rash enough to conclude that all Travers' works were "shady," had been badly burned for their presumption. After one indignant vindication of his methods Travers had been allowed to go his way, smiling, unperturbed, with a friendly twinkle in his eye for his detractors which acknowledged a perfect understanding. On the whole he had been successful. A Napoleon of finance, he never burned his bridges. If any of his campaigns failed, as they sometimes did, he had always a safe retreat left open; and if his bridge proved only strong enough to carry himself over, and gave way under his flying followers--well, it was a misfortune which could have been averted if every one had taken as much care of himself as he had done. When well beyond pursuit, he would hold out a helping hand to the survivors, and received therefor as much gratitude as on the other occasions he received abuse. Which filled him with good-natured amusement, the one being as undeserved as the other. His last enterprise, the Marut Campaign, thanks to a happy constellation of circumstances, promised an unusual degree of success, and his enthusiasm on the subject was not the less real because he kept hidden his usual reserve for unforeseen possibilities. According to the Rajah's invitation, he repaired early on the second day after their momentous conversation to the palace. He was received there by an old servant, who told him that Nehal Singh had gone out riding before sunrise, but was expected to return shortly. "The Rajah Sahib remembers my coming?" Travers asked. "Yes, Sahib. The Rajah Sahib commanded that the palace should be at the Sahib's disposal while he waits."