“Yes, there is that danger,” he admitted.  “Seeking to restore a friend, we might kindle an enemy.”  And then he rose up and suddenly burst out:  “But upon my word, were that to come to pass, we should deserve it.  For we are to blame—­we who took him from Chiltistan and sent him to be petted by the fine people in England.”  And once more it was evident from his words that he was thinking not of Shere Ali—­not of the human being who had just his one life to live, just his few years with their opportunities of happiness, and their certain irrevocable periods of distress—­but of the Prince of Chiltistan who might or might not be a cause of great trouble to the Government of the Punjab.

“We must take the risk,” he cried as one arguing almost against himself.  “It’s the only chance.  So we must take the risk.  Besides, I have been at some pains already to minimise it.  Shere Ali has a friend in England.  We are asking for that friend.  A telegram goes to-day.  So come to-morrow night and do your best.”

“Very well, I will,” said Hatch, and, taking up his hat, he went away.  He had no great hopes that any good would come of the dinner.  But at the worst, he thought, it would leave matters where they were.

In that, however, he was wrong.  For there were important moments in the history of the young Prince of Chiltistan of which both Hatch and Ralston were quite unaware.  And because they were unaware the dinner which was to help in straightening out the tangle of Shere Ali’s life became a veritable catastrophe.  Shere Ali was brought reluctantly to the table in the corner of the great balcony upon the first floor.  He had little to say, and it was as evident to the two men who entertained him as it had been to Colonel Dewes that the last few weeks had taken their toll of him.  There were dark, heavy pouches beneath his eyes, his manner was feverish, and when he talked at all it was with a boisterous and a somewhat braggart voice.

Ralston turned the conversation on to the journey which Hatch had taken, and for a little while the dinner promised well.  At the mere mention of Mecca, Shere Ali looked up with a swift interest.  “Mecca!” he cried, “you have been there!  Tell me of Mecca.  On my way up to Chiltistan I met three of my own countrymen on the summit of the Lowari Pass.  They had a few rupees apiece—­just enough, they told me, to carry them to Mecca.  I remember watching them as they went laughing and talking down the snow on their long journey.  And I wondered—­” He broke off abruptly and sat looking out from the balcony.  The night was coming on.  In front stretched the great grass plain of the Maidan with its big trees and the wide carriage-road bisecting it.  The carriages had driven home; the road and the plain were empty.  Beyond them the high chimney-stacks of the steamers on the river could still be seen, some with a wisp of smoke curling upwards into the still air; and at times the long, melancholy hoot of a steam-syren broke the stillness of the evening.