“It seems,” he read, “that there had been some trouble between this man and Shere Ali.  There is a story that Shere Ali set him to work for a day upon a bridge just below Kohara.  But I do not know whether there is any truth in the story.  Nor can I find that any particular meaning is attached to the present.  I imagine that Shere Ali realised that it would be wise—­as undoubtedly it was—­for him to make his peace with the Mullah, and sent him accordingly the melons and the bags of grain as an earnest of his good-will.”

There the letter ended, and Ralston stood by the window as the light failed more and more from off the earth, pondering with a heavy heart upon its contents.  He had to make his choice between the Resident at Kohara and the lady of Gujerat.  Captain Phillips held that the present was not interpreted in any symbolic sense.  But the lady of Gujerat had known of the present.  It was matter of talk, then, in the bazaars, and it would hardly have been that had it meant no more than an earnest of good-will.  She had heard of the present; she knew what it was held to convey.  It was a message.  There was that glare broadening over Chiltistan.  Surely the lady of Gujerat was right.

So far his thoughts had carried him when across the window there fell a shadow, and a young officer of the Khyber Rifles passed by to the door.  Captain Singleton was announced, and a boy—­or so he looked—­dark-haired and sunburnt, entered the office.  For eighteen months he had been stationed in the fort at Landi Kotal, whence the road dips down between the bare brown cliffs towards the plains and mountains of Afghanistan.  With two other English officers he had taken his share in the difficult task of ruling that regiment of wild tribesmen which, twice a week, perched in threes on some rocky promontory, or looking down from a machicolated tower, keeps open the Khyber Pass from dawn to dusk and protects the caravans.  The eighteen months had written their history upon his face; he stood before Ralston, for all his youthful looks, a quiet, self-reliant man.

“I have come down on leave, sir,” he said.  “On the way I fetched Rahat Mian out of his house and brought him in to Peshawur.”

Ralston looked up with interest.

“Any trouble?” he asked.

“I took care there should be none.”

Ralston nodded.

“He had better be safely lodged.  Where is he?”

“I have him outside.”

Ralston rang for lights, and then said to Singleton:  “Then, I’ll see him now.”

And in a few minutes an elderly white-bearded man, dressed from head to foot in his best white robes, was shown into the room.

“This is his Excellency,” said Captain Singleton, and Rahat Mian bowed with dignity and stood waiting.  But while he stood his eyes roamed inquisitively about the room.

“All this is strange to you, Rahat Mian,” said Ralston.  “How long is it since you left your house in the Khyber Pass?”