On the Face of the Waters: A Tale of the Mutiny. Flora Annie Webster Steel

know all about the Moulvie of Fyzabad. His name has been on the register of suspects for months." He rose, crossed to a bookshelf, and coming back processionally with two big volumes, began to turn over the pages of one.

      "M--Mo--Ah! Ma, no doubt. That is correct, though transliteration is really a difficult task--to be consistent yet intelligible in a foreign language is---- No. It must be under F in the first volume. F; Fy. Just so! Here we are. 'Fyzabad, Moulvie of--fanatic, tall, medium color, mole on inside of left shoulder.' This is the man, I think?"

      "I was not aware of the mole, sir," replied James Greyman dryly, "but he is a magnificent preacher, a consistent patriot, a born organizer; and he is now on his way to Delhi."

      "To Delhi?" echoed the civilian pettishly. "What can a man of the stamp you say he is want with Delhi? A sham court, a miserable pantaloon of a king, the prey of a designing woman who flatters his dotage. I admit he is the representative of the Moghul dynasty, but its record for the last hundred and fifty years is bad enough surely to stamp out sentiment of that sort."

      "Prince Charles Edward was not a very admirable person, nor the record of the Stuarts a very glorious one, and yet my grandfather----" James Greyman pulled himself up sharply, and seeing an old prayer-book lying on the table, which, with the alternatives of a bottle of Ganges water and a copy of the Koran, lay ready for the discriminate swearing of witnesses, finished his sentence by opening the volume at a certain Office, and then placing the open book on the top of the proclamation. "It will be no news to you, sir, that prayers of that sort are being used in all the mosques. Of course here, in Lucknow, they are for my late master's return. But if anything comparable to the '15 or the '45 were to come, Delhi must be the center. It is the lens which would focus the largest area, the most rays; for it appeals to greed as well as good, to this world as well as the next."

      "Do you think it a center of disaffection now, Mr. Greyman?" asked the military magnate with an emphasis on the title.

      "I do not know, sir. Zeenut Maihl, the Queen, has court intrigues, but they are of little consequence."

      "I disagree," protested the Political. "You require the experience of a lifetime to estimate the enormous influence----"

      "What do you consider of importance, then?" interrupted the soldier rather cavalierly, leaning across the table eagerly to look at James Greyman. There was an instant's silence, during which those voices rehearsing were clearly audible. The tragedy had apparently reached a climax.

      "That; and this." He pointed to the Proclamation, and a small fragment of something which he took from his waistcoat pocket and laid beside the paper. The civilian inspected it curiously, the soldier, leaving his chair, came round to look at it also. The sunny room was full of peace and solid security as those three Englishmen, with no lack of pluck and brains, stood round the white fragment.

      "Looks like bone," remarked the soldier.

      "It is bone, and it was found, so I heard in the bazaar to-day, at the bottom of a Commissariat flour-sack----"

      James Greyman was interrupted by a relieved pshaw! from the Political.

      "The old story, eh, Greyman! I wonder what next these ignorant fools----"

      "When the ignorant fools happen to be drilled soldiers, and, in Bengal, outnumber our English troops by twenty-four to one," retorted James Greyman sharply, "it seems a work of supererogation to ask what they will do next. If I were in their place---- However, if I may tell you how that came into my hands you will perhaps be able to grasp the gravity of the situation."

      "Won't you take a chair?" asked the soldier quickly.

      James Greyman glanced at the Political. "No, thanks, I won't be long. There is a class of grain carriers called Bunjârahs. They keep herds of oxen, and have carried supplies for the Royal troops since time immemorial. They have a charter engraved on a copper breastplate. I've only seen a copy, for the original Jhungi and Bhungi lived ages ago in Rajpootana. It runs so:

      "While Jhungi Bhungi's oxen

       Carry the army's corn,

       House-thatch to feed their flocks on,

       House-water ready drawn.

       Three murders daily shriven,

       These rights to them are given,

       While Jhungi Bhungi's oxen

       Carry the army's corn."

      "Preposterous," murmured the civilian. "That's at an end, anyhow."

      "Naturally; for they no longer carry the corn. The method is too slow, too Eastern for our Commissariat. But the Oude levies used to employ them. So did I at the stables. This is over also, and when I last saw my tanda--that's a caravan of them, sir--they were sub-contracting under a rich Hindoo firm which was dealing direct with the Department. They didn't like it."

      "Still you can't deny that the growth of a strong, contented commercial class with a real stake in the country----" began the civilian hurriedly.

      "That sounds like the home-counties or a vestry board," interrupted his hearer dryly. "The worst of it, in this case, being that you have to get your content out of the petty dealers like these Bunjârahs. I came upon one yesterday telling a circle of admirers, in the strictest confidence of course, lest the Sirkar should kill him for letting the cat out of the bag, that he had found that bit of bone at the bottom of a Commissariat sack he bought to mend his own. The moral being, of course, that it was safer to buy from him. But he was only half through when I, knowing the scoundrel, fell on him and thrashed him for lying. The audience approved, and assented to his confession that it was a lie; but only to please me, the man with the stick. And as for Jhungi, he will tell the tale with additional embellishments in every village to which the caravan goes; unless someone is there to thrash him if he does."

      "Scoundrel," muttered the soldier angrily.

      "Or saint," added James Greyman. "He will be that when he comes to believe his own story of having burned the sack rather than use it. That won't be long. Then he will be much more dangerous. However, if there is no place vacant for me, sir----"

      "If you would not mind waiting a minute----" began the military magnate, with a hasty look at the Political.

      James Greyman bowed, and retired discreetly to the window. It looked out upon just such another garden as Kate Erlton's, and the remembrance provoked the cynical question as to what the devil he was doing in that galley. Racing was a far safer way of making money than acting as a spy; to no purpose possibly, at least so far as his own chance was concerned.

      Yet five minutes after, when the Political was writing him out a safe conduct in the event of his ever getting into difficulties with the authorities, he interrupted the scratching of the pen to say, suddenly:

      "If you would make it out in my own name, sir, I should prefer it. James Sholto Douglas, late of the ----th Regiment."

      "Hm!" said the military magnate thoughtfully when the new employee in the Secret Intelligence Department left the room. "So that is Jim Douglas, is it? I thought he was a service man by the set of his shoulders. Jim Douglas. I remember his case when I was in the A.-G.'s office."

      "What was it?" asked the civilian curiously.

      "Oh, a woman, of course. I forget the details, she was the wife of his major, a drunken beast. There was something about a blow, and she didn't back him up; saved her reputation, you understand. But he was an uncommonly smart officer, I know that."

CHAPTER V.

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BRAVO!

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