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THE WRECK

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"Yes, she's at home," he murmured drowsily, and falling back composed himself to sleep again.

The door opened at a push. Ramesh entered and glanced into one room after another but all were untenanted.

He shouted "Kamala!" but there was no response.

He made the round of the garden, going as far as the nim tree, and searched the kitchen, the servants' quarters, and the stables, but Kamala was nowhere to be found.

In the meantime the sun had risen, the crows had begun to caw, and two or three village girls had ap- peared, carrying jars on their heads, in quest of water from the well of the compound.

In a walled courtyard across the road peasant women had set to work grinding wheat, singing the while in shrill discordant notes.

Returning to the bungalow, Ramesh found that Bishan was once more buried in slumber. Bending down and shaking the sleeper vigorously Ramesh no- ticed that his breath smelt strongly of toddy. The rough handling partially restored Bishan to his senses and he scrambled to his feet.

"Where's your mistress?" inquired Ramesh.

"Why, surely she's in the house."

Ramesh. "Nonsense, she's not there."

Bishan, "She certainly came here yesterday."

Ramesh. "Where did she go after that?"

Bishan merely gaped and at that moment Umesh appeared, gorgeously attired in Kamala's finery, with eyes bloodshot from want of sleep.

"Where's mother, Umesh?" inquired his master.

"She has been here since yesterday."

"Where have you been?"

"Mother sent me to see the play at Sidhu Babu's." "What about my fare, sir?" interjected the driver at this point.