The Witness for the Defense | Page 9

seemed to her a
magnificent poem as she sat at the dinner-table. Here in the
drawing-room she began to think that it was not for every-day use. She
wished a word now with Thresk, so that she might make light of the
advice which she had given. "I had no business to interfere," she kept
repeating to herself whilst she talked with her host. "People get what
they want if they want it enough, but they can't control the price they
have to pay. Therefore it was no business of mine to interfere."
But Thresk took his leave and gave her no chance for a private word.
She drove homewards a few minutes later with her husband; and as
they descended the hill to the shore of Back Bay he said:
"I had a moment's conversation with Thresk after you had left the
dining-room, and what do you think?"
"Tell me!"
"He asked me for a letter of introduction to Ballantyne at Chitipur."
"But he knows Stella!" exclaimed Jane Repton.

"Does he? He didn't tell me that! He simply said that he had time to see
Chitipur before he sailed and asked for a line to the Resident."
"And you promised to give him one?"
"Of course. I am to send it to the Taj Mahal hotel to-morrow morning."
Mrs. Repton was a little startled. She did not understand at all why
Thresk asked for the letter and, not understanding, was the more
alarmed. The request seemed to imply not merely that he had decided
to make the journey but that during the hour or so since they had sat at
the dinner-table he had formed some definite and serious plan.
"Did you tell him anything?" she asked rather timidly.
"Not a word," replied Repton.
"Not even about--what happened in the hills at Mussoorie?"
"Of course not."
"No, of course not," Jane Repton agreed.
She leaned back against the cushions of the victoria. A clear dark sky
of stars wonderfully bright stretched above her head. After the hot day
a cool wind blew pleasantly on the hill, and between the trees of the
gardens she could see the lights of the city and of a ship here and there
in the Bay at their feet.
"But it's not very likely that Thresk will find them at Chitipur," said
Repton. "They will probably be in camp."
Mrs. Repton sat forward.
"Yes, that's true. This is the time they go on their tour of inspection. He
will miss them." And at once disappointment laid hold of her. Mrs.
Repton was not in the mood for logic that evening. She had been afraid
a moment since that the train she had laid would bring about a
conflagration. Now that she knew it would not even catch fire she

passed at once to a passionate regret. Thresk had inspired her with a
great confidence. He was the man, she believed, for her Stella. But he
was going up to Chitipur! Anything might happen! She leaned back
again in the carriage and cried defiantly to the stars.
"I am glad that he's going. I am very glad." And in spite of her
conscience her heart leaped joyously in her bosom.
CHAPTER V
THE QUEST
The next night Henry Thresk left Bombay and on the Wednesday
afternoon he was travelling in a little white narrow-gauge train across a
flat yellow desert which baked and sparkled in the sun. Here and there
a patch of green and a few huts marked a railway station and at each
gaily-robed natives sprung apparently from nowhere and going
no-whither thronged the platform and climbed into the carriages.
Thresk looked impatiently through the clouded windows, wondering
what he should find in Chitipur if ever he got there. The capital of that
state lies aloof from the trunk roads and is reached by a branch railway
sixty miles long, which is the private possession of the Maharajah and
takes four hours to traverse. For in Chitipur the ancient ways are
devoutly followed. Modern ideas of speed and progress may whirl up
the big central railroad from Bombay to Ajmere. But they stop at the
junction. They do not travel along the Maharajah's private lines to
Chitipur, where he, directly descended from an important and most
authentic goddess, dispenses life and justice to his subjects without
even the assistance of the Press. There is little criticism in the city and
less work. A patriarchal calm sleeps in all its streets. In Chitipur it is
always Sunday afternoon. Even down by the lake, where the huge
white many-storeyed palace contemplates its dark-latticed windows and
high balconies mirrored in still water unimaginably blue nothing which
could be described as energy is visible. You may see an elephant
kneeling placidly in the lake while an attendant polishes up