went soldiering we cleaned camp at cock-crow. By daybreak,
if there was dung left in the horse-lines, someone heard about it.”
Other than the customary politeness about Blair’s health, he asked no
questions. His eyes did not rest for more than a moment on the tent where
Taron Ling lay, but he sat where he could detect a movement of the tent-flap
without turning his head. The Indian night that has a hundred thousand eyes
had evidently kept him well informed. He awaited events. Thirty minutes after
daybreak his young grandson arrived, on a lean pony from the direction of the
ford, dismounted and squatted at the old man’s feet. A servant led the pony
away. The boy said nothing, but the old Rangar seemed to understand his
silence, although he, too, made no remark.
Grayne came a few minutes after that, cantering. His horse’s legs and
belly were wet from splashing through the ford, but he reined in as if in no
hurry at all, when he drew near the camp. He looked peculiarly unofficial in
polo helmet, shirt and riding-breeches. He wore smoked spectacles, but
removed them before shaking hands, which he did rather diffidently, as if not
quite sure it was expected of him. He merely nodded to the Rangar, who stood
up and bowed.
Blair received him with the smile of old acquaintance: “Having a good
time? Enjoying your leave?”
“So, so. Making the best of it. Couldn’t afford England. Bought too many
expensive books the last year or two.”
That looked probable. He had the eyes of a bookish man—searchers of
others’ opinions—friendly, sympathetic, intelligent, not dynamic
—perhaps lazy in some ways.
“Shooting?” Blair asked as they sat down together.
“Not much. Reading and writing mostly. Hear you shot a tiger last
night.”
“Yes. How’s Henrietta Frensham?”
“Apropos of tigers? I don’t know how or where she is. I came to speak
about her.”
“Isn’t she in your camp?”
“No. She should be, but she didn’t sleep there. My servant told me your
men brought her home, long after midnight. As a matter of fact, I heard her.
It was so damned hot I was lying without a stitch on, so I couldn’t come out
to speak to her. My wife was’ asleep in her own tent. I imagine I. fell
asleep pretty soon afterwards.
“I like to watch the sunrise, so the boy has orders to call me in plenty
of time for it, and I take tea in pyjamas outside the tent. My wife usually
joins me, and Henrietta sometimes does. This morning I wanted to talk to her,
so I sent to see if she was awake. She wasn’t there. Nobody has seen her
leave camp. So I rode over to ask what you know.”
“Funny time to want to talk to her,” Blair suggested.
“Better time than any other. She sometimes actually talks at daybreak,
instead of listening and saying nothing. Doris and I have respected her
silence, of course. It’s comprehensible. She probably feels much worse about
her father’s disappearance than she cares to reveal to anyone—even her
friends. I’ve let her do pretty much as she pleases.”
“So I hear,” Blair answered. “What did you have in mind to say to her at
daybreak?” Grayne looked vaguely uncomfortable. He did his best to look
judicious—leaned back. lighted a cigar, pursing his lips on the
butt.
“There’s a limit,” he said. “She’s a damned nice girl, although unusual.
To put it mildly, she’s unconventional. But I’d trust her anywhere, in nearly
any circumstances.” He blew smoke through his nose. “I don’t believe there’s
a soul on this countryside who’d harm her. But she overdoes it. I mean, for
instance, where the hell is she now? Home in the early hours—off again
before daybreak without a word to anyone—tigers, you know?
snakes—besides, who’d bet there aren’t dacoits in the hills? There
probably aren’t, but there might be. Doris and I don’t mind her missing meals
or anything like that, but—well, I ask you.”
Blair waited. He
if there was dung left in the horse-lines, someone heard about it.”
Other than the customary politeness about Blair’s health, he asked no
questions. His eyes did not rest for more than a moment on the tent where
Taron Ling lay, but he sat where he could detect a movement of the tent-flap
without turning his head. The Indian night that has a hundred thousand eyes
had evidently kept him well informed. He awaited events. Thirty minutes after
daybreak his young grandson arrived, on a lean pony from the direction of the
ford, dismounted and squatted at the old man’s feet. A servant led the pony
away. The boy said nothing, but the old Rangar seemed to understand his
silence, although he, too, made no remark.
Grayne came a few minutes after that, cantering. His horse’s legs and
belly were wet from splashing through the ford, but he reined in as if in no
hurry at all, when he drew near the camp. He looked peculiarly unofficial in
polo helmet, shirt and riding-breeches. He wore smoked spectacles, but
removed them before shaking hands, which he did rather diffidently, as if not
quite sure it was expected of him. He merely nodded to the Rangar, who stood
up and bowed.
Blair received him with the smile of old acquaintance: “Having a good
time? Enjoying your leave?”
“So, so. Making the best of it. Couldn’t afford England. Bought too many
expensive books the last year or two.”
That looked probable. He had the eyes of a bookish man—searchers of
others’ opinions—friendly, sympathetic, intelligent, not dynamic
—perhaps lazy in some ways.
“Shooting?” Blair asked as they sat down together.
“Not much. Reading and writing mostly. Hear you shot a tiger last
night.”
“Yes. How’s Henrietta Frensham?”
“Apropos of tigers? I don’t know how or where she is. I came to speak
about her.”
“Isn’t she in your camp?”
“No. She should be, but she didn’t sleep there. My servant told me your
men brought her home, long after midnight. As a matter of fact, I heard her.
It was so damned hot I was lying without a stitch on, so I couldn’t come out
to speak to her. My wife was’ asleep in her own tent. I imagine I. fell
asleep pretty soon afterwards.
“I like to watch the sunrise, so the boy has orders to call me in plenty
of time for it, and I take tea in pyjamas outside the tent. My wife usually
joins me, and Henrietta sometimes does. This morning I wanted to talk to her,
so I sent to see if she was awake. She wasn’t there. Nobody has seen her
leave camp. So I rode over to ask what you know.”
“Funny time to want to talk to her,” Blair suggested.
“Better time than any other. She sometimes actually talks at daybreak,
instead of listening and saying nothing. Doris and I have respected her
silence, of course. It’s comprehensible. She probably feels much worse about
her father’s disappearance than she cares to reveal to anyone—even her
friends. I’ve let her do pretty much as she pleases.”
“So I hear,” Blair answered. “What did you have in mind to say to her at
daybreak?” Grayne looked vaguely uncomfortable. He did his best to look
judicious—leaned back. lighted a cigar, pursing his lips on the
butt.
“There’s a limit,” he said. “She’s a damned nice girl, although unusual.
To put it mildly, she’s unconventional. But I’d trust her anywhere, in nearly
any circumstances.” He blew smoke through his nose. “I don’t believe there’s
a soul on this countryside who’d harm her. But she overdoes it. I mean, for
instance, where the hell is she now? Home in the early hours—off again
before daybreak without a word to anyone—tigers, you know?
snakes—besides, who’d bet there aren’t dacoits in the hills? There
probably aren’t, but there might be. Doris and I don’t mind her missing meals
or anything like that, but—well, I ask you.”
Blair waited. He
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