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"This girl," said Dinghra, his voice suddenly very soft and persuasive, "she is worth a good deal to you doubtless?" "Doubtless," said Rivington. "She is worth what?" Rivington stared uncomprehendingly. With a slight, contemptuous gesture the Indian proceeded to explain. "She is worth a good deal to me too more than you would think. Her mother also desires a marriage between us.
And then, finding her weight upon him, he stopped and lifted her in his arms. She covered her face with her hands, and he laughed above her head. "It is a dangerous amusement," he said, "to laugh at Dinghra. There are not many who dare. There is not one who goes unpunished." He bore her back to her resting-place. He set her on her feet and drew her hands away, holding her firmly by the wrists.
Lalcaca, and though the London correspondent of the Kal, Vinayak Savarkar, who was arrested this year in London to take his trial on the gravest charges at Bombay, magnified the success of the plot by describing its chief victim as "the eyes of the Secretary of State through which he saw all Indian affairs," there is some reason to believe that Dinghra expected to find at the reception another Anglo-Indian official whom the "extremists" were particularly anxious to "remove," and only in his absence struck at Sir W. Curzon Wyllie.
Leave a note behind for mamma when she arrives, and tell her why. She'll understand." "But but how can I? Dinghra will only follow me, and I shall be more at his mercy than ever in the country." "If he finds you," said Rivington. "But mother would tell him directly where to look." "If she knew herself," he returned drily. "Oh!" She stared at him with eyes of grave doubt.
"Dinghra has had the advantage of a public-school education. He has doubtless been thrashed before." "He is vindictive," she objected. "He may be, but he is shrewd enough to know when the game is up. Frankly, Chirpy, I don't think the prospect of pestering you, or even of punishing me, will induce him to take the field again after we are married.
"I detest it," said Rivington, with unusual energy. Dinghra drew a step nearer, noiselessly, like a cat. His lips began to smile. He could not have been aware of the tigerish ferocity of his eyes. "I should like to make a bargain with you, Mr. Rivington," he said. Rivington, his hands in his pockets, looked him over with a cool appraising eye. He said nothing at all.
"You think there is no danger of Dinghra?" she said, after a moment. Rivington smiled grimly, and got to his feet. "Not the smallest," he said. "He might come back," she persisted. "What if what if he tried to murder you?" Rivington was coaxing his pipe back to life. He accomplished his object before he replied. Then: "You need not have the faintest fear of that," he said.
When at length he leaned his elbows on the table and said, "Tell me all about it," she was ready. She leaned towards him, and dropped her voice. "You know Mr. Dinghra Singh? I'm sure you do. Every one does." "Yes, I know him. They call him Nana Sahib at the clubs." She shuddered again. "I used to like him rather. He has a wicked sort of fascination, you know. But I loathe him now; I abhor him.
She came to full understanding to see Dinghra, in the grip of an Englishman, being hideously thrashed with his own horsewhip. He was quite powerless in that grip, but he would fight to the end, and it seemed that the end was not far off. The punishment must have been going on for many seconds.
A long streamer of bramble had tripped her unaccustomed feet. She was conscious for an instant of the horrible pain of it as she was flung forward on her hands. And then came the touch that she dreaded, the sinewy hands lifting her, the sinister face looking into hers. "You should never run away from destiny," said Dinghra softly. "Destiny can always catch you up." She gasped and shuddered.
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