“Yes, and isn’t it an extraordinary thing!” cried Ballantyne, his face flashing suddenly into interest and enjoyment.  The enthusiasm of the administrator in his work got the better of his fear now, just as a little earlier it had got the better of his drunkenness.  Thresk was looking now into the face of a quite different man, the man of the intimate knowledge and the high ability for whom fine rewards were prophesied in Bombay.  “The very cleverest of them can’t resist the temptation of being photographed in group.  Crime after crime has been brought home to the Indian criminal both here and in London because they will sit in garden-chairs and let a man take their portraits.  Nothing will stop them.  They won’t learn.  They are like the ladies of the light opera stage.  Well, let ’em go on I say.  Here’s an instance.”

“Is it?” asked Thresk.  “Surely that photograph was taken a long time ago.”

“Nine years.  But he was at the same game.  You have got the proof in your hands.  There’s a group of nine men—­Salak and his eight friends.  Well, of his eight friends every man jack is now doing time for burglary, in some cases with violence—­that second ruffian, for instance, he’s in for life—­in some cases without, but in each case the crime was burglary.  And why?  Because Salak in the centre there set them on to it.  Because Salak nine years ago wasn’t the big swell he is now.  Because Salak wanted money to start his intrigues.  That’s the way he got it—­burglaries all round Bombay.”

“I see,” said Thresk.  “Salak’s in prison now?”

“He’s in prison in Calcutta, yes.  But he’s awaiting his trial.  He’s not convicted yet.”

“Exactly,” Thresk answered.  “This photograph is a valuable thing to have just now.”

Ballantyne threw up his arms in despair at the obtuseness of his companion.

“Valuable!” he cried in derision.  “Valuable!” and he leaned forward on his elbows and began to talk to Thresk with an ironic gentleness as if he were a child.

“You don’t quite understand me, do you?  But a little effort and all will be plain.”

He got no farther however upon this line of attack, for Thresk interrupted him sharply.

“Here!  Say what you have got to say if you want me to help you.  Oh, you needn’t scowl!  You are not going to bait me for your amusement.  I am not your wife.”  And Ballantyne after a vain effort to stare Thresk down changed to a more cordial tone.

“Well, you say it’s a valuable thing to have just now.  I say it’s an infernally dangerous thing.  On the one side there’s Salak the great national leader, Salak the deliverer, Salak professing from his prison in Calcutta that he has never used any but the most legitimate constitutional means to forward his propaganda.  And here on the other is Salak in his garden-chair amongst the burglars.  Not a good thing to possess—­this photograph, Mr. Thresk.  Especially because it’s the only one in existence and the negative has been destroyed.  So Salak’s friends are naturally anxious to get it back.”