King--of the Khyber Rifles. Talbot Mundy

slower in the Chandni Chowk, for the ancient Street of the Silversmiths that is now the mart of Delhi was ablaze with crude colors, and was thronged with more people than ever since '57. There were a thousand signs worth studying by a man who could read them.

      King, watching and saying nothing, reached the conclusion that Delhi was in hand--excited undoubtedly, more than a bit bewildered, watchful, but in hand. Without exactly knowing how he did it, he grew aware of a certain confidence that underlay the surface fuss. After that the sea of changing patterns and raised voices ceased to have any particular interest for him and he lay back against the cushions to pay stricter attention to his own immediate affairs.

      He did not believe for a second the lame explanation Yasmini had left behind. She must have some good reason for wishing to be first up the Khyber, and he was very sorry indeed she had slipped away. It might be only jealousy, yet why should she be jealous? It might be fear--yet why should she be afraid?

      It was the next remark of the Rangar's that set him entirely on his guard, and thenceforward whoever could have read his thoughts would have been more than human. Perhaps it is the most dominant characteristic of the British race that it will not defend itself until it must. He had known of that thought-reading trick ever since his ayah (native nurse) taught him to lisp Hindustanee; just as surely he knew that its impudent, repeated use was intended to sap his belief in himself. There is not much to choose between the native impudence that dares intrude on a man's thoughts, and the insolence that understands it, and is rather too proud to care.

      “I'll bet you a hundred dibs,” said the Rangar, “that she jolly well didn't fancy your being on the scene ahead of her! I'll bet you she decided to be there first and get control of the situation! Take me? You'd lose if you did! She's slippery, and quick, and like all Women, she's jealous!”

      The Rangar's eyes were on his, but King was not to be caught again. It is quite easy to think behind a fence, so to speak, if one gives attention to it.

      “She will be busy presently fooling those Afridis,” he continued, waving his cigarette. “She has fooled them always, to the limit of their bally bent. They all believe she is their best friend in the world--oh, dear Yes, you bet they do! And so she is--so she is--but not in the way they think! They believe she plots with them against the Raj! Poor silly devils! Yet Yasmini loves them! They want war--blood--loot! It is all they think about! They are seldom satisfied unless their wrists and elbows are bally well red with other peoples' gore! And while they are picturing the loot, and the slaughter of unbelievers--(as if they believed anything but foolishness themselves!)--Yasmini plays her own game, for amusement and power--a good game--a deep game! You have seen already how India has to ask her aid in the 'Hills'! She loves power, power, power--not for its name, for names are nothing, but to use it. She loves the feel of it! Fighting is not power! Blood-letting is foolishness. If there is any blood spilt it is none of her doing--unless--”

      “Unless what?” asked King.

      “Oh--sometimes there were fools who interfered. You can not blame her for that.”

      “You seem to be a champion of hers! How long have you known her?”'

      The Rangar eyed him sharply.

      “A long time. She and I played together when we were children. I know her whole history--and that is something nobody else in the world knows but she herself. You see, I am favored. It is because she knows me very well that she chose me to travel North with you, when you start to find her in the 'Hills'!”

      King cleared his throat, and the Rangar nodded, looking into his eyes with the engaging confidence of a child who never has been refused anything, in or out of reason. King made no effort to look pleased, so the Rangar drew on his resources.

      “I have a letter from her,” he stated blandly.

      From a pocket in the carriage cushions he brought out a silver tube, richly carved in the Kashmiri style and closed at either end with a tightly fitting silver cap. King accepted it and drew the cap from one end. A roll of scented paper fell on his lap, and a puff of hot wind combined with a lurch of the carriage springs came near to lose it for him; he snatched it just in time and unrolled it to find a letter written to himself in Urdu, in a beautiful flowing hand.

      Urdu is perhaps the politest of written tongues and lends itself most readily to indirectness; but since he did not expect to read a catalogue of exact facts, he was not disappointed.

      Translated, the letter ran:

      “To Athelstan King sahib, by the hand of Rewa Gunga.

       Greeting. The bearer is my well-trusted servant, whom

       I have chosen to be the sahib's guide until Heaven

       shall be propitious and we meet. He is instructed

       in all that he need know concerning what is now in hand,

       and he will tell by word of mouth such things as ought

       not to be written. By all means let Rewa Gunga travel

       with you, for he is of royal blood, of the House of

       Ketchwaha and will not fail you. His honor and mine

       are one. Praying that the many gods of India may heap

       honors on your honor's head, providing each his proper

       attribute toward entire ability to succeed in all things,

       but especially in the present undertaking,

       “I am Your Excellency's humble servant,

       --Yasmini.”

      He had barely finished reading it when the coachman took a last corner at a gallop and drew the horses up on their haunches at a door in a high white wall. Rewa Gunga sprang out of the carriage before the horses were quite at a standstill.

      “Here we are!” he said, and King, gathering up the letter and the silver tube, noticed that the street curved here so that no other door and no window overlooked this one.

      He followed the Rangar, and he was no sooner into the shadow of the door than the coachman lashed the horses and the carriage swung out of view.

      “This way,” said the Rangar over his shoulder. “Come!”

Chapter III

       Table of Contents

      Lie to a liar, for lies are his coin.

       Steal from a thief, for that is easy.

       Set a trap for a trickster, and catch him at the first attempt.

       But beware of the man who has no axe to grind.

       --Eastern Proverb

      It was a musty smelling entrance, so dark that to see was scarcely possible after the hot glare outside. Dimly King made out Rewa Gunga mounting stairs to the left and followed him. The stairs wound backward and forward on themselves four times, growing scarcely any lighter as they ascended, until, when he guessed himself two stories at least above road level, there was a sudden blaze of reflected light and he blinked at more mirrors than he could count. They had been swung on hinges suddenly to throw the light full in his face.

      There were curtains reflected in each mirror, and little glowing lamps, so cunningly arranged that it was not possible to guess which were real and which were not. Rewa Gunga offered no explanation, but stood watching with quiet amusement. He seemed to expect King to take a chance and go forward, but if he did he reckoned without his guest. King stood still.

      Then suddenly, as if she had done it a thousand times before and surprised a thousand people, a little nut-brown maid parted the middle pair of curtains and said “Salaam!” smiling with teeth that were as white as porcelain. All the other curtains parted too, so that the whereabouts of the door might still have been in doubt had she not spoken and so distinguished herself from her reflections. King looked scarcely interested and not at all disturbed.