Through the narrow, evil smelling streets of the bazaars a man hurried that night, glancing behind frequently to see if by any mischance some one followed.  He stopped at the house of Lal Singh, the shoemaker, whom he found drowsing over his water pipe.

“Is it well?” said the newcomer, intoning.

“It is well,” answered Lal Singh, dropping the mouthpiece of his pipe.  He had spoken mechanically.  When he saw who his visitor was his eyes brightened.  “Ahmed?”

“Hush!” with a gesture toward the ceiling.

“She is out merrymaking, like the rest of her kind.  The old saying:  if a man waits, the woman comes to him.  I am alone.  There is news?”

“There is a journey.  Across Hind to Simla.”

“The hour has arrived?”

“At least the excuse.  Give these to one in authority with the British Raj, whose bread we eat.”  Ahmed slid across the table a very small scroll.  “The Mem-sahib is my master’s daughter.  She must be spirited away to safety.”

“Ah!” Lal Singh rubbed his fat hands.  “So the time nears when we shall wring the vulture’s neck?  Ai, it is good!  Umballa, the toad, who swells and swells as the days go by.  Siva has guarded him well.  The king picks him out of the gutter for a pretty bit of impudence, sends him afar to Umballa, where he learns to speak English, where he learns to wear shoes that button and stiff linen bands round the neck.  He has gone on, gone on!  The higher up, the harder the fall.”

“The cellar?”

“There are pistols and guns and ammunition and strange little wires by which I make magic fires.”

“Batteries?”

“One never knows what may be needed.  You have the key?”

“Yes.”

“Hare Sahib’s daughter.  And Hare Sahib?” with twinkling eyes.

“In some dungeon, mayhap.  There all avenues seemed closed up.”

“Umballa needs money,” said Lal Singh, thoughtfully.  “But he will not find it,” in afterthought.

“To-morrow?”

“At dawn.”

These two men were spiders in that great web of secret service that the
British Raj weaves up and down and across Hind, to Persia and
Afghanistan, to the borders of the Bear.

Even as Lal Singh picked up his mouthpiece again and Ahmed sallied forth into the bazaars Umballa had brought to him in the armory that company of soldiers who had shown such open mutiny, not against the state but against him.

Gravely he questioned the captain.

“Pay our wages, then, heaven born,” said the captain, with veiled insolence.  “Pay us, for we have seen not so much as betel money since the last big rains.”

“Money,” mused Umballa, marking down this gallant captain for death when the time came.

“Ai, money; bright rupees, or, better still, yellow British gold.  Pay us!”

“Let us be frank with each other,” said Umballa, smiling to cover the fire in his eyes.