H. Bedford-Jones and W. C. Robertson

“ Esrun laughed, and her laughter rang oddly in their ears. The words had stung.
“This creature was a princess of the Rajputs!” she returned. “And she has made herself strong, powerful, feared! And rich, also. What is better, after the lapse of many years she is about to avenge her ruined life upon the rajah's son, and the nephew of Sir Cecil Kilgore, the proud sahib!”
To this Kilgore returned no answer.
“Your two friends were here—they trapped me,” went on Esrun after a moment. “I shot Fandi Singh. His companion shot me and left me for dead. But I was not dead. ”

“ Esrun laughed—a delicious peal of girlish mirth that was frightful to hear, so bitter was its contrast with realities.
“I have thirty years of suffering to make up,” she answered. “Do you think that this can be repaid in a moment—in a day—in a year? Do you think it can be repaid by the destruction of the body alone? No, sahib! The gods have been kind, by sending me you and Fandi Singh. Why should I hurry? I am not yet near death.”
Day watched the creature in a species of horrified fascination. Kilgore remained cool ”

“ Your telepathic communications will be discovered. This place will be found out. What then?”
“If the thought makes you happy, cherish it!” was the sardonic response. “But I would advise you to be cautious. ”