“Do you remember anything about the Sahibs?”

“It is long ago, but I remember that one Sahib, a fat man and always angry, was playing here one night, and he said to me:—­’Mangal Khan, brandy-pani do,’ and I filled the glass, and he bent over the table to strike, and his head fell lower and lower till it hit the table, and his spectacles came off, and when we—­the Sahibs and I myself—­ran to lift him he was dead.  I helped to carry him out.  Aha, he was a strong Sahib!  But he is dead and I, old Mangal Khan, am still living, by your favor.”

That was more than enough!  I had my ghost—­a first-hand, authenticated article.  I would write to the Society for Psychical Research—­I would paralyze the Empire with the news!  But I would, first of all, put eighty miles of assessed crop land between myself and that dak-bungalow before nightfall.  The Society might send their regular agent to investigate later on.

I went into my own room and prepared to pack after noting down the facts of the case.  As I smoked I heard the game begin again,—­with a miss in balk this time, for the whir was a short one.

The door was open and I could see into the room. Click—­click! That was a cannon.  I entered the room without fear, for there was sunlight within and a fresh breeze without.  The unseen game was going on at a tremendous rate.  And well it might, when a restless little rat was running to and fro inside the dingy ceiling-cloth, and a piece of loose window-sash was making fifty breaks off the window-bolt as it shook in the breeze!

Impossible to mistake the sound of billiard balls!  Impossible to mistake the whir of a ball over the slate!  But I was to be excused.  Even when I shut my enlightened eyes the sound was marvelously like that of a fast game.

Entered angrily the faithful partner of my sorrows, Kadir Baksh.

“This bungalow is very bad and low-caste!  No wonder the Presence was disturbed and is speckled.  Three sets of doolie-bearers came to the bungalow late last night when I was sleeping outside, and said that it was their custom to rest in the rooms set apart for the English people!  What honor has the khansamah?  They tried to enter, but I told them to go.  No wonder, if these Oorias have been here, that the Presence is sorely spotted.  It is shame, and the work of a dirty man!”

Kadir Baksh did not say that he had taken from each gang two annas for rent in advance, and then, beyond my earshot, had beaten them with the big green umbrella whose use I could never before divine.  But Kadir Baksh has no notions of morality.

There was an interview with the khansamah, but as he promptly lost his head, wrath gave place to pity, and pity led to a long conversation, in the course of which he put the fat Engineer-Sahib’s tragic death in three separate stations—­two of them fifty miles away.  The third shift was to Calcutta, and there the Sahib died while driving a dog-cart.