“Copper’s up one point,” he was saying, “that’s fine.  Who’s Captain Ballantyne, I wonder?  United Steel has dropped seven-eighths.  Well, that doesn’t affect me,” and so he ran on.

Thresk heard no more of what he said.  He stood wondering what news could have come up on the tape of Captain Ballantyne who was out in camp in the state of Chitipur, or if there was another Captain Ballantyne.  He joined the little group in front of the machine, and picking up the ribbon from the floor ran his eyes backwards along it until he came to “United Steel.”  The sentence in front of that ran as follows: 

“Captain Ballantyne was found dead early yesterday morning outside his tent close to Jarwhal Junction.”

Thresk read the sentence twice and then walked away.  The news might be false, of course, but if it were true here was a revolution in his life.  There was no need for this letter which he held in his hand.  The way was smoothed out for Stella, for him.  Not for a moment could he pretend to do anything but welcome the news, to wish with all his heart that it was true.  And it seemed probable news.  There was the matter of that photograph.  Thresk had carried it out to the Governor’s house on Malabar Point on the very morning of his arrival in Bombay.  He had driven on to Mrs. Repton’s house after he had left it there.  But he had taken it away from Chitipur at too late a day to save Ballantyne.  Ballantyne had, after all, had good cause to be afraid while he possessed it, and the news had not yet got to Salak’s friends that it had left his possession.  Thus he made out the history of Captain Ballantyne’s death.

The tape machine, however, might have ticked out a mere rumour with no truth in it at all.  He went to the office and obtained a copy of The Advocate of India,—­the evening newspaper of the city.  He looked at the stop-press telegrams.  There was no mention of Ballantyne’s death.  Nor on glancing down the columns could he find in any paragraph a statement that any mishap had befallen him.  But on the other hand he read that he himself, Henry Thresk, having brought his case to a successful conclusion, had left India yesterday by the mail-steamer Madras, bound for Marseilles.  He threw down the paper and went to the telephone-box.  If the news were true the one person likely to know of it was Mrs. Repton.  Thresk rang up the house on the Khamballa Hill and asked to speak to her.  An answer was returned to him at once that Mrs. Repton had given orders that she was not to be disturbed.  Thresk however insisted: 

“Will you please give my name to her—­Henry Thresk,” and he waited with his ear to the receiver for a century.  At last a voice spoke to him, but it was again the voice of the servant.

“The Memsahib very sorry, sir, but cannot speak to any one just now;” and he heard the jar of the instrument as the receiver at the other end was sharply hung up and the connection broken.