King--of the Khyber Rifles. Talbot Mundy

ape; but King, the person most entitled to be angry, actually apologized! That being a miracle, the babu forthwith wrought another one, and within a minute King's one trunk was checked through to Delhi.

      “Delhi is right, sahib?” he asked, to make doubly sure; for in India where the milk of human kindness is not hawked in the market-place, men will pay over-measure for a smile.

      “Yes. Delhi is right. Thank you, babuji.”

      He made more room for the Hillman, beaming amusement at the man's impatience; but the Hillman had no luggage and turned away, making an unexpected effort to hide his face with a turban end. He who had forced his way to the front with so much violence and haste now burst back again toward the train like a football forward tearing through the thick of his opponents. He scattered a swath a yard wide, for he had shoulders like a bull. King saw him leap into third-class carriage. He saw, too, that he was not wanted in the carriage. There was a storm of protest from tight-packed native passengers, but the fellow had his way.

      The swath through the crowd closed up like water in a ship's wake, but it opened again for King. He smiled so humorously that the angry jostled ones smiled too and were appeased, forgetting haste and bruises and indignity merely because understanding looked at them through merry eyes. All crowds are that way, but an Indian crowd more so than all.

      Taking his time, and falling foul of nobody, King marked down a native constable--hot and unhappy, leaning with his back against the train. He touched him on the shoulder and the fellow jumped.

      “Nay, sahib! I am only constabeel--I know nothing--I can do nothing! The teerain goes when it goes, and then perhaps we will beat these people from the platform and make room again! But there is no authority--no law any more--they are all gone mad!”

      King wrote on a pad, tore off a sheet, folded it and gave it to him.

      “That is for the Superintendent of Police at the office. Carriage number 1181, eleven doors from here--the one with the shut door and a big Hillman inside sitting three places from the door facing the engine. Get the Hillman! No, there is only one Hillman in the carriage. No, the others are not his friends; they will not help him. He will fight, but he has no friends in that carriage.”

      The “constabeel” obeyed, not very cheerfully. King stood to watch him with a foot on the step of a first-class coach. Another constable passed him, elbowing a snail's progress between the train and the crowd. He seized the man's arm.

      “Go and help that man!” he ordered. “Hurry!”

      Then he climbed into the carriage and leaned from the window. He grinned as he saw both constables pounce on a third-class carriage door and, with the yell of good huntsmen who have viewed, seize the protesting Northerner by the leg and begin to drag him forth. There was a fight, that lasted three minutes, in the course of which a long knife flashed. But there were plenty to help take the knife away, and the Hillman stood handcuffed and sullen at last, while one of his captors bound a cut forearm. Then they dragged him away; but not before he had seen King at the window, and had lipped a silent threat.

      “I believe you, my son!” King chuckled, half aloud. “I surely believe you! I'll watch! Ham dekta hai!”

      “Why was that man arrested?” asked an acid voice behind him; and without troubling to turn his head, he knew that Major Hyde was to be his carriage mate again. To be vindictive, on duty or off it, is foolishness; but to let opportunity slip by one is a crime. He looked glad, not sorry, as he faced about--pleased, not disappointed--like a man on a desert island who has found a tool.

      “Why was that man arrested?” the major asked again.

      “I ordered it,” said King.

      “So I imagined. I asked you why.”

      King stared at him and then turned to watch the prisoner being dragged away; he was fighting again, striking at his captors' heads with handcuffed wrists.

      “Does he look innocent?” asked King.

      “Is that your answer?” asked the major. Balked ambition is an ugly horse to ride. He had tried for a command but had been shelved.

      “I have sufficient authority,” said King, unruffled. He spoke as if he were thinking of something entirely different. His eyes were as if they saw the major from a very long way off and rather approved of him on the whole.

      “Show me your authority, please!”

      King dived into an inner pocket and produced a card that had about ten words written on its face, above a general's signature. Hyde read it and passed it back.

      “So you're one of those, are you!” he said in a tone of voice that would start a fight in some parts of the world and in some services. But King nodded cheerfully, and that annoyed the major more than ever; he snorted, closed his mouth with a snap and turned to rearrange the sheet and pillow on his berth.

      Then the train pulled out, amid a din of voices from the left-behind that nearly drowned the panting of overloaded engine. There was a roar of joy from the two coaches full of soldiers in the rear--a shriek from a woman who had missed the train--a babel of farewells tossed back and forth between the platform and the third-class carriages--and Peshawur fell away behind.

      King settled down on his side of the compartment, after a struggle with the thermantidote that refused to work. There was heat enough below the roof to have roasted meat, so that the physical atmosphere became as turgid as the mental after a little while.

      Hyde all but stripped himself and drew on striped pajamas. King was content to lie in shirt-sleeves on the other berth, with knees raised, so that Hyde could not overlook the general's papers. At his ease he studied them one by one, memorizing a string of names, with details as to their owners' antecedents and probable present whereabouts. There were several photographs in the packet, and he studied them very carefully indeed.

      But much most carefully of all he examined Yasmini's portrait, returning to it again and again. He reached the conclusion in the end that when it was taken she had been cunningly disguised.

      “This was intended for purpose of identification at a given time and place,” he told himself.

      “Were you muttering at me?” asked Hyde.

      “No, sir.”

      “It looked extremely like it!”

      “My mistake, sir. Nothing of the sort intended.”

      “H-rrrrr-ummmmmph!”

      Hyde turned an indignant back on him, and King studied the back as if he found it interesting. On the whole he looked sympathetic, so it was as well that Hyde did not look around. Balked ambition as a rule loathes sympathy.

      After many prickly-hot, interminable, jolting hours the train drew up at Rawal-Pindi station. Instantly King was on his feet with his tunic on, and he was out on the blazing hot platform before the train's motion had quite ceased.

      He began to walk up and down, not elbowing but percolating through the crowd, missing nothing worth noticing in all the hot kaleidoscope and seeming to find new amusement at every turn. It was not in the least astonishing that a well-dressed native should address him presently, for he looked genial enough to be asked to hold a baby. King himself did not seem surprised at all. Far from it; he looked pleased.

      “Excuse me, sir,” said the man in glib babu English. “I am seeking Captain King sahib, for whom my brother is veree anxious to be servant. Can you kindlee tell me, sir, where I could find Captain King sahib?”

      “Certainly,” King answered him. He looked glad to be of help. “Are you traveling on this train?”

      The question sounded like politeness welling from the lips of unsuspicion.

      “Yes, sir. I am traveling from this place where I have spent a few days, to Bombay, where my business is.

      “How did you know King sahib is on the train?” King asked him, smiling so genially that even the police could not have charged him with more than curiosity.