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Wylie, I. A. R. (Ida Alexa Ross), 1885-1959

"The Native Born or, the Rajah's People"

"
"Do you know of any one who could have a grudge against you?"
"No."
"Or against--your family?"
There was a slight hesitation in Stafford's manner. He frowned as a
man does who has been pressed with an unpleasant question.
"That is more possible," he admitted.
Nehal Singh made no further remark. He stood staring straight ahead
into the half-darkness, and every eye in that uneasy assembly fixed
itself on his face, as though striving to read from his expression the
conclusion to which his mind was groping. For his exclamation after
Stafford's first announcement had betrayed that a sudden suspicion had
flashed before him, and they waited for him to take them into his
confidence. But they waited in vain. He seemed to have forgotten their
existence, and the silence grew tense and painful. All at once, Mrs.
Berry, who was clinging to her husband's arm, uttered a scream, which
acted like a shock of electricity on the overstrained nerves of those
who stood about her.
"Look! Look!" she cried. "Miss Caruthers is on fire! Oh, help! Help!"
She turned and rushed like a frightened sheep to the back of the hall,
crying incoherent warnings to those who tried to bar her headlong
flight. It was a catastrophe upon catastrophe. How it happened no one
knew--possibly some half-extinct candle had done the work. In an
instant Lois' white silk dress had become a sheet of flame which
mounted with furious rapidity to her horror-stricken face.


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