But now, and on this night of all nights, Shere Ali was in a mood to listen.  There were intrigues on foot—­there were always intrigues on foot.  But to-night he would weigh those intrigues.  He went out from the music-hall, and under the white glare of the electric lamps above the door he stood for a moment in full view.  Then he deliberately took his handkerchief from his pocket.  From the opposite side of the road, a man in native dress, wearing a thick dark cloak over his white shirt and pyjamas, stepped forward.  Shere Ali advanced to meet him.

“Huzoor, huzoor,” said the man, bending low, and he raised Shere Ali’s hand and pressed his forehead upon it, in sign of loyalty.

“You wish to speak to me?” said Shere Ali.

“If your Highness will deign to follow.  I am Ahmed Ismail.  Your Highness has heard of me, no doubt.”

Shere Ali did not so much as smile, nor did he deny the statement.  He nodded gravely.  After all, vanity was not the prerogative of his people alone in all the world.

“Yes,” he said, “I will follow.”

Ahmed Ismail crossed the road once more out of the lights into the shadows, and walked on, keeping close to the lines of houses.  Shere Ali followed upon his heels.  But these two were not alone to take that road.  A third man, a Bengali, bespectacled, and in appearance most respectable, came down the steps of the musichall, a second after Shere Ali had crossed the road.  He, too, had been a witness of the prize-fight.  He hurried after Shere Ali and caught him up.

“Very good fight, sir,” he said.  “Would Prince of Chiltistan like to utter some few welcome words to great Indian public on extraordinary skill of respective pugilists?  I am full-fledged reporter of Bande Mataram, great Nationalist paper.”

He drew out a note-book and a pencil as he spoke.  Ahmed Ismail stopped and turned back towards the two men.  The Babu looked once, and only once, at the money-lender.  Then he stood waiting for Shere Ali’s answer.

“No, I have nothing to say,” said Shere Ali civilly.  “Good-night,” and he walked on.

“Great disappointment for Indian public,” said the Bengali.  “Prince of Chiltistan will say nothing.  I make first-class leading article on reticence of Indian Prince in presence of high-class spectacular events.  Good-night, sir,” and the Babu shut up his book and fell back.

Shere Ali followed upon the heels of Ahmed Ismail.  The money-lender walked down the street to the Maidan, and then turned to the left.  The Babu, on the other hand, hailed a third-class gharry and, ascending into it gave the driver some whispered instructions.

The gharry drove on past the Bengal Club, and came, at length, to the native town.  At the corner of a street the Babu descended, paid the driver, and dismissed him.

“I will walk the rest of the way,” he said.  “My home is quite near and a little exercise is good.  I have large varicose veins in the legs, or I should have tramped hand and foot all the way.”