"You are too sharp, Short, my boy," laughed the good-natured Captain Stevenson. "But there is something wrong with Quinton undeniably. I wonder who the little woman is, and where she came from?" Major Short rides on in silence, he is thinking of the little woman's smile. That night, as Quinton smokes in his low cane chair, Eleanor brings the guitar, running her lithe fingers over the strings. "I say, Eleanor," he begins, "you need not have let out you could not read music. It was awfully _gauche_ of you. You don't want to advertise your farm origin." "I am so sorry, darling," she answers penitently. Again she strikes the cords, this time hesitatingly, for her hand trembles. The spicy garlic smells are wafted on the night air. Eleanor breaks suddenly into song, as if inspired by the oriental atmosphere: "When the mist was on the rice fields, an' the sun was droppin' low, She gets her little banjo, an' she'd sing "Kullalo-lo. With her arms upon my shoulder, an' 'er cheek agin my cheek, We use ter watch the steamers, and the 'hathis "pilin'" teak. Her voice travels far in the darkness; she feels as if singing to some unseen audience--perchance spirits peopling that road to Mandalay. The dog at her feet starts up suddenly, bristling all over, growling, barking! "Did you hear anything?" asks Carol nervously. "I fancied a rustle came from the bushes." "Perhaps danger is stalking abroad to-night," mutters Carol, throwing his cigar aside. The dog refuses to be silenced, while Eleanor, holding him by the collar, tries to soothe his petulance. But Carol goes indoors. CHAPTER XVIII. LET US BE OPEN AS THE DAY. Eleanor notices after that night Carol becomes nervous and irritable. His absences are more frequent, but whereever he goes he takes the dog with him for protection. Though only a rough-haired terrier, it seems to guard him; yet the constant recurrence of apparently reasonless growls and barks startles and annoys him. Eleanor often sits with Elizabeth Katchin when Quinton is out, and wonders what she would do without the companionship of this one white woman. That day she is walking up the hill towards her friend's hut, when she meets young Tombo, who rushes up and seizes her skirts. "Oh, do come!" he cries, dragging her along; "something awful bad is going on at home. There is a stranger at our door crying just dreadful; and mother's red in the face, sayin' no end of angry words, stampin', fumin', and wringing her hands. The stranger wanted to see me and speak; but mother just hustled me out at the back, and tells me to go and play beans in the jungle. But the boys are not there. Quartey M'Ba is takin' care of his father, who's dead drunk with Zoo, and little Rangusaw Mymoodelayer is workin' with his uncle. It's sure to be all right if you come, Mrs. Quinton. Mother 'll calm down when she sees who I've brought."