“Do you mean for your clerical work, as babus and writers?”

“No.  These chaps are content to do the regular coolie work.  Of course we make them heads of gangs.  I believe they’re what are called Brahmins.”

“Impossible!  Brahmins as tea-garden coolies?” exclaimed Dermot in surprise.

“Yes.  I’m told that they are Brahmins, though I don’t know much about natives yet,” replied his host.

Dermot was silent for a while.  He could hardly believe that the boy was right.  Brahmins who, being of the priestly caste, claim to be semi-divine rather than mere men, will take up professions or clerical work, but with all his experience of India he had never heard of any of them engaging in such manual labour.

“How do you get them?” he asked.

“Oh, they come here to ask for employment themselves,” replied Daleham.

“Do they get them on many gardens in the district?” asked Dermot, in whose mind a vague suspicion was arising.

“There are one or two on most of them.  The older planters are surprised.”

“I don’t wonder,” commented Dermot grimly.  “It’s something very unusual.”

“We have got most, though,” added his host.  “I daresay it’s because our engineer is a Hindu.  His name is Chunerbutty.”

“Sounds as if he were a Bengali Brahmin himself,” said Dermot.

“He is.  His father holds an appointment in the service of the Rajah of Lalpuri, a native State in Eastern Bengal not far from here.  The son is an old friend of ours.  I met him first in London.”

“In fact, it was through Mr. Chunerbutty that we came here,” said Noreen.  “He gave Fred an introduction to this company.”

Dermot reflected.  He felt that if these men were really Bengali Brahmins, their coming to the district to labour as coolies demanded investigation.  Their race furnishes the extremist and disloyal element in India, and any of them residing on these gardens would be conveniently placed to act as channels of communication between enemies without and traitors within.  He felt that it would be advisable for him to talk the matter over with some of the older planters.

“Who is your manager here?” he enquired.

“A Welshman named Parry.”

“Are you far from Salchini?”

“You mean Payne’s garden?  Yes; a good way.  He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”

“Yes; I should like to see him again.  I must pay him a visit.”

“Oh, look here, Major,” said Daleham eagerly.  I’ve got an idea.  Tomorrow is the day of our weekly meeting at the club.  Will you let me put you up for the night, and we’ll take you tomorrow to the club, where you will meet Payne?”

“Thank you; it’s very kind of you; but—­” began Dermot dubiously.

Noreen joined in.

“Oh, do stay, Major Dermot.  We’d be delighted to have you.”

Dermot needed but little pressing, for the plan suited him well.