Barlow could formulate no plausible method; he could not hide the death of the two native messengers, and would simply have to take the stand of, “Here is this message from His Excellency and as to how I came by it is of as little importance as an order from the War Office regulating the colour of thread that attaches buttons to a tunic.”

He turned the Cabuli up the wide drive that led to the Residency, the big white walled bungalow in which Hodson lived, and shook his riding crop toward Elizabeth who was reading upon the verandah.  He swung from the saddle, and held out his hand to the girl, saying cheerily, “Hello, Beth!  Didn’t you ride this morning, or are you back early?”

The novel seemed to require support of the girl’s hand, or she had not observed that of the caller.  Her face, always emotionless, was repellent in its composure as she said; “Father is just inside in his office with a native, and I fancy it’s one of the usual dark things of mystery, for he asked me to sit here by the window that he might have both air and privacy; I’m to warn off all who might stand here against the wall with an open ear.”

“I’ll pull a chair up and chat to you till he’s—­”

“No, Captain Barlow—­” Barlow winced at this formality—­“Father, I’m sure, wants you in this matter; in fact, I think a chuprassi is on his way now to your bungalow with the Resident’s salaams.”

Barlow laid his fingers on the girl’s shoulder:  “I’m ghastly tired, Beth.  I’ll come back to you.”

“Yes, India is enervating,” she commented in a flat tone.

Barlow had a curious impression that the girl’s grey eyes had turned yellow as she made this observation.

“Ah, Captain, glad you’ve come,” Hodson said, rising and extending a hand across a flat-topped desk.  “I’m—­I’m—­well—­pull a chair.  This is one Ajeet Singh,” and he drooped slightly his thin, lean, bald head toward the Bagree Chief, who stood stiff and erect, one arm in a sling.

At this, Ajeet, knowing it for an informal introduction, put his hand to his forehead, and said, “Salaam, Sahib.”

“Tulwar play, sir, and an appeal for protection to the British, eh?” and Barlow indicated the arm in the sling.

Still speaking in English Hodson said:  “As to that,—­” he pursed his thin lips,—­“something dreadful has happened; this man has been mixed up in a decoity and has come for protection; he wants to turn Approver.”

“The usual thing; when these cut-throats are likely to be caught they turn Judas; to save their own necks they offer a sacrifice of their comrades.”

“Yes,” the Resident affirmed, “but I’m glad he came.  Perhaps we had better just sit tight and let him go on—­he’s only nicely started.  I’ve practically promised him that if what he confesses is of service to His Excellency’s government I will give him our conditional pardon, and use what influence I have with the Peshwa.  But I fancy that old Baji Rao is mixed up in it himself.”