“Quick!  Into that valley!  Fetch me those two men who were standing there!”

The two levies pressed their horses through the crowd, but the alley was empty when they came to it.

CHAPTER XXX

THE NEEDED IMPLEMENT

Ralston rode home with an uncomfortable recollection of the little dinner-party in Calcutta at which Hatch had told his story of the Englishwoman in Mecca.  Had that story fired Shere Ali?  The time for questions had passed; but none the less this particular one would force itself into the front of his mind.

“I would have done better never to have meddled,” he said to himself remorsefully—­even while he gave his orders for the apprehension of Shere Ali and his companion.  For he did not allow his remorse to hamper his action; he set a strong guard at the gates of the city, and gave orders that within the gates the city should be methodically searched quarter by quarter.

“I want them both laid by the heels,” he said; “but, above all, the Prince.  Let there be no mistake.  I want Shere Ali lodged in the gaol here before nightfall”; and Linforth’s voice broke in rapidly upon his words.

“Can I do anything to help?  What can I do?”

Ralston looked sharply up from his desk.  There had been a noticeable eagerness, a noticeable anger in Linforth’s voice.

“You?” said Ralston quietly. “You want to help?  You were Shere Ali’s friend.”

Ralston smiled as he spoke, but there was no hint of irony in either words or smile.  It was a smile rather of tolerance, and almost of regret—­the smile of a man who was well accustomed to seeing the flowers and decorative things of life wither over-quickly, and yet was still alert and not indifferent to the change.  His work for the moment was done.  He leaned back thoughtfully in his chair.  He no longer looked at Linforth.  His one quick glance had shown him enough.

“So it’s all over, eh?” he said, as he played with his paper-knife.  “Summer mornings on the Cherwell.  Travels in the Dauphine.  The Meije and the Aiguilles d’Arves.  Oh, I know.”  Linforth moved as he stood at the side of Ralston’s desk, but the set look upon his face did not change.  And Ralston went on.  There came a kind of gentle mockery into his voice.  “The shared ambitions, the concerted plans—­gone, and not even a regret for them left, eh? Tempi passati! Pretty sad, too, when you come to think of it.”

But Linforth made no answer to Ralston’s probings.  Violet Oliver’s instincts had taught her the truth, which Ralston was now learning.  Linforth could be very hard.  There was nothing left of the friendship which through many years had played so large a part in his life.  A woman had intervened, and Linforth had shut the door upon it, had sealed his mind against its memories, and his heart against its claims.  The evening at La Grave in the Dauphine had borne its fruit.  Linforth stood there white with anger against Shere Ali, hot to join in the chase.  Ralston understood that if ever he should need a man to hunt down that quarry through peril and privations, here at his hand was the man on whom he could rely.