From the frontier of Bhutan, six thousand feet up on the face of the mountains, a line of men wound down the serpentining track that led to Ranga Duar.  At their head walked a stockily-built man with cheery Mongolian features, wearing a white cloth garment, kimono-shaped and kilted up to give freedom to the sturdy bare thighs and knees—­the legs and feet cased in long, felt-soled boots.  It was the Deb Zimpun, the Envoy of the independent Border State of Bhutan.  Behind him came a tall man in khaki tunic, breeches, puttees and cap, his breast covered with bright-coloured ribbons.  His uniform was similar to the British; but his face was unmistakeably Chinese, as were those of the twenty tall, khaki-clad soldiers armed with magazine rifles at his heels.  They were followed by three or four score Bhutanese swordsmen, thick-set and not unlike Gurkhas in feature, with bare heads, legs and feet, and clad only in a single garment similar to their leader’s and kilted up by a cord around the waist, from which hung a dah, a short sword or long knife.  In rear of them trudged a number of coolies, some laden with bundles, others with baskets of fruit.

Where the track came out on the bare shoulder of a spur free from the small trees and undergrowth clothing the mountains the Deb Zimpun pointed to the roofs of the buildings in the little station a thousand feet below them and hitherto invisible to them.

“That is Ranga Duar,” he said briefly.  The Chinaman behind him looked down at it.

“It seems a very small and weak place to have stopped our invading troops in the war,” he said in Bhutanese.  “So here lives the Man.”

“The Man?  Yes, perhaps he is a man.  But many, very many, there be that think him a god or devil.  They say he can call up a horde of demons in the form of elephants.  With such he trampled your army into the earth.

“Devils?  Leave such tales to lamas and the ignorant fools that believe their teaching.  But if even a part of what I have heard about this man be true he is more dangerous than many devils.  He stands in China’s way, and he who does shall be swept aside.”

“He is my friend,” said the Deb Zimpun shortly, and tramped on in silence.

Before they reached the station they were met by two of the Political Officer’s men, Bhuttias resident in British territory, detailed to receive and guide them to the Government Dak Bungalow in which the Deb Zimpun and as many of his followers as could crowd into it were to reside during their stay.  Arrived at it the long line filed into the compound.

Half a mile away down the hill Colonel Dermot and Wargrave watched them through their field-glasses.

“Who is that fellow in khaki uniform, sir?” asked the subaltern.

The Political Officer lowered his binoculars and laughed.