My quotation was hardly out of my lips before we had rounded the corner above the Convent; and a few yards further on could see across to Sanjowlie. In the centre of the level road stood the black and white liveries, the yellow-panelled 'rickshaw, and Mrs. Keith-Wessington. I pulled up, looked, rubbed my eyes, and, I believe, must have said something. The next thing I knew was that I was lying face downward on the road, with Kitty kneeling above me in tears. "Has it gone, child?" I gasped; "for God's sake, say it's gone." Kitty only wept more bitterly. "Has what gone? Jack dear, what does it all mean? There must be a mistake somewhere, Jack—a hideous mistake." Her last words brought me to my feet—mad—raving for the time being.
"Yes, there is a mistake somewhere," I repeated; "a hideous mistake. Come and look at It!" I have an indistinct idea that I dragged Kitty by the wrist along the road up to where It stood, and implored her for pity's sake to speak to It; to tell It that we were betrothed; that neither Death nor Hell could break the tie between us, and heaven only knows how much more to the same effect. Now and again I appealed passionately to the Terror in the 'rickshaw to bear witness to all I had said, and to release me from a torture that was killing me. As I talked I suppose I must have told Kitty of my old relations with Mrs. Wessington, for I saw her listen intently with white face and blazing eyes:—"Thank you, Mr. Pansy. That's quite enough. A sober scoundrel for a husband would be had enough, but a drunken one is rather more than I care for. Syce, ghora láo." The syce, impassive as Orientals always are, had come up with the recaptured horses; and as Kitty sprang into her saddle I caught hold of the bridle, entreating her to hear me out and forgive. My answer was the cut of her riding-whip across my face from mouth to eye, and a word or two of farewell that even now I cannot write down. So I judged and judged rightly that Kitty knew all; and I staggered back to the side of the 'rickshaw like the drunken man she believed me to be. My face was cut and bleeding, and the blow of the riding-whip had raised a livid blue wheal on it. Just then, Heatherlegh, who must have been following Kitty and me at a distance, cantered up. "Doctor," I said, pointing to my face, "here's Miss Mannering's signature to my order of dismissal, and . . . I'll thank you for that lakh as soon as convenient." Heatherlegh's face, even in my abject misery, moved me to laughter. "I'll stake my professional
