“There’s no one over there, eh?” he asked.

“No one.”

Ballantyne nodded as he moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.

“They make these tents too large,” he said in a whisper.  “One great blot of light in the middle and all around in the corners—­shadows.  We sit here in the blot of light—­a fair mark.  But what’s going on in the shadows, Mr.—­What’s your name?  Eh?  What’s going on in the shadows?”

Thresk had no doubt that Ballantyne’s fear was genuine.  He was not putting forward merely an excuse for the scene which his guest had witnessed and might spread abroad on his return to Bombay.  No, he was really terrified.  He interspersed his words with sudden unexpected silences, during which he sat all ears and his face strained to listen, as though he expected to surprise some stealthy movement.  But Thresk accounted for it by that decanter on the sideboard, in which the level of the whisky had been so noticeably lowered that evening.  He was wrong however, for Ballantyne sprang to his feet.

“You are going away to-night.  You can do me a service.”

“Can I?” asked Thresk.

He understood at last why Ballantyne had been at such pains to interest and amuse him.

“Yes.  And in return,” cried Ballantyne, “I’ll give you another glimpse into the India you don’t know.”

He walked up to the door of the tent and drew it aside.  “Look!”

Thresk, leaning forward in his chair, looked out through the opening.  He saw the moonlit plain in a soft haze, in the middle of it the green lamp of a railway signal and beyond the distant ridge, on which straggled the ruins of old Chitipur.

“Look!” cried Ballantyne.  “There’s tourist India all in one:  a desert, a railway and a deserted city, hovels and temples, deep sacred pools and forgotten palaces—­the whole bag of tricks crumbling slowly to ruin through centuries on the top of a hill.  That’s what the good people come out for to see in the cold weather—­Jarwhal Junction and old Chitipur.”

He dropped the curtain contemptuously and it swung back, shutting out the desert.  He took a step or two back into the tent and flung out his arms wide on each side of him.

“But bless your soul,” he cried vigorously, “here’s the real India.”

Thresk looked about the tent and understood.

“I see,” he answered—­“a place very badly lit, a great blot of light in the centre and all around it dark corners and grim shadows.”

Ballantyne nodded his head with a grim smile upon his lips.

“Oh, you have learnt that!  Well, you shall do me a service and in return you shall look into the shadows.  But we will have the table cleared first.”  And he called aloud for Baram Singh.

CHAPTER VII

THE PHOTOGRAPH

While Baram Singh was clearing the table Ballantyne lifted the box of cheroots from the top of the bureau and held it out to Thresk.