He stayed for a week, and then coming to the house one morning he found it shuttered.  He knocked upon the door, but no one answered his summons; all the reply he got was the melancholy echo of an empty house.

A Babu from the Customs Office, who was passing at the moment, stopped and volunteered information.

“There is no one there, Mister,” he said gravely.  “All have skedaddled to other places.”

“The Prince Shere Ali, too?” asked Linforth.

The Babu laughed contemptuously at the title.

“Oho, the Prince!  The Prince went away a week ago.”

Linforth turned in surprise.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

The Babu told him the very day on which Shere Ali had gone from Ajmere.  It was on the day when the pitcher had fallen on the steps which led down to the well.  Linforth had been tricked by the smiling courtier like any schoolboy.

“Whither did the Prince go?”

The Babu shrugged his shoulders.

“How should I know?  They are not of my people, these poor ignorant hill-folk.”

He went on his way.  Linforth was left with the assurance that now, indeed, he had really failed.  He took the train that night back to Peshawur.

CHAPTER XXVII

AN ARRESTED CONFESSION

Linforth related the history of his failure to Ralston in the office at Peshawur.

“Shere Ali went away on the day the pitcher was broken,” he said.  “It was the breaking of the pitcher which gave him the notice to go; I am sure of it.  If one only knew what message was conveyed—­” and Ralston handed to him a letter.

The letter had been sent by the Resident at Kohara and had only this day reached Peshawur.  Linforth took it and read it through.  It announced that the son of Abdulla Mahommed had been murdered.

“You see?” said Ralston.  “He was shot in the back by one of his attendants when he was out after Markhor.  He was the leader of the rival faction, and was bidding for the throne against Shere Ali.  His murder clears the way.  I have no doubt your friend is over the Lowari Pass by this time.  There will be trouble in Chiltistan.  I would have stopped Shere Ali on his way up had I known.”

“But you don’t think Shere Ali had this man murdered!” cried Linforth.

Ralston shrugged his shoulders.

“Why not?  What else was he waiting for from ten to eleven in the balcony above the well, except just for this news?”

He stopped for a moment, and went on again in a voice which was very grave.

“That seems to you horrible.  I am very much afraid that another thing, another murder much more horrible, will be announced down to me in the next few days.  The son of Abdulla Mahommed stood in Shere Ali’s way a week ago and he is gone.  But the way is still not clear.  There’s still another in his path.”