The short thick-set Pathan turned for confirmation of his estimate to another Pathan, grey-eyed but obviously a Pathan, nevertheless.

“I say it is five kos and the carts should start at moonrise and arrive before the moon sets.”

“You are right, brother,” replied the grey-eyed Pathan, who, for his own reasons, particularly desired that the convoy should move by moonlight.  This individual had not spoken hitherto in the hearing of the blind faquir, and, as he did so now, the blind man turned sharply in his direction, a look of startled surprise and wonder on his face.

“Who spoke?” he snapped.

But the grey-eyed man arose, yawned hugely, and, arranging his puggri and straightening his attire, swaggered towards the door of the room, passed out into a high-walled courtyard, exchanged a few words with the guardian of a low gateway, and emerged into a narrow alley where he was joined by an African-looking camel-man.

The blind man, listening intently, sat motionless for a minute and then again asked sharply:—­

“Who spoke?  Who spoke?”

“Many have spoken Pir Saheb,” replied the squat Pathan.

“Who said ‘You are right, brother,’ but now?  Who?  Quick!” he cried.

“Who?  Why, ’twas one of us,” replied the squat Pathan.  “Yea, ’twas Abdulali Habbibullah, the money-lender.  I have known him long....”

“Let him speak again,” said the blind man.

“Where is he?  He has gone out, I think,” answered the other.

“Call him back, Hidayetullah.  Take others and bring him back.  I must hear his voice again,” urged the faquir.

“He will come again, Moulvie Saheb, he is often here,” said the short man soothingly.  “I know him well.  He will be here to-morrow.”

“See, Hidayetullah,” said the blind faquir “when next he comes, say then to me, ‘May I bring thee tobacco, Pir Saheb,’ if he be sitting near, but say ‘May I bring thee tobacco, Moulvie Saheb,’ if he be sitting afar off.  If this, speak to him across the room that I may hear his voice in answer, and call him by his name, Abdulali Habbibullah.  And if I should, on a sudden, cry out ‘Hold the door,’ do thou draw knife and leap to the door....”

“A spy, Pir Saheb?” asked the interested man.

“That I shall know when next I hear his voice—­and, if it be he whom I think, thou shalt scrape the flesh from the bones of his face with thy knife and put his eyeballs in his mouth.  But he must not die.  Nay!  Nay!”

The Pathan smiled.

“Thou shalt hear his voice, Pir Saheb,” he promised.

* * * * *

An hour later the African-looking camel-man and the Pathan approached the gates of the Military Prison and at a distance of a couple of hundred yards the African imitated the cry of a jackal, the barking of a dog and the call of the “Did-ye-do-it” bird.

Approaching the gate he whispered a countersign and was admitted, the gate being then held open for the Pathan who followed him at a distance of a hundred yards.  Entering Colonel Ross-Ellison’s room the Pathan quickly metamorphosed himself into Colonel Ross-Ellison, and sent for his Adjutant, Captain Malet-Marsac.