The Prince had given no orders for the capture of Ali Partab; that had been carried out by his men in a fit of ill-advised officiousness.  But the Prince had to solve the serious problem caused by the presence of Ali Partab within a stone-walled cell.

Should he let the fellow go, a report would be certain to reach Mahommed Gunga by the speediest route.  Vengeance would be instantly decided on, for a Rajput does not merely accept service; he repays it, feudal-wise, and smites hip and thigh for the honor of his men.  The vengeance would be sure to follow purely Eastern lines, and would be complicated; it would no doubt take the form of siding in some way or other with his brother the Maharajah.  There would be instant, active doings, for that was Mahommed Gunga’s style!  The fat would be in the fire months, perhaps, before the proper time.

The prisoner’s presence was maddening in a million ways.  It had been the Prince’s plan (for he knew well enough that Mahommed Gunga had left a man behind) to allow the escape to start; then it would have been an easy matter to arrange an ambush—­to kill Ali Partab—­and to pretend to ride to the rescue.  Once rescued, Miss McClean and her father would be almost completely at his mercy, for they would not be able to accuse him of anything but friendliness, and would be obliged to return to whatever haven of safety he cared to offer them.  Once in his palace of their own consent, they would have had to stay there until the rising of the whole of India put an end to any chance of interference from the British Government.

But now there was no Ali Partab outside to try to escort them to some place of safety; therefore, there was little chance that the missionaries would try to make a bolt.  Instead of being in the position of a cat that watches silently and springs when the mouse breaks cover, he was in the unenviable condition now of being forced to make the first move.  Over and over again he cursed the men who had made Ali Partab prisoner, and over and over again:  he wondered how—­ by all the gods of all the multitudinous Hindoo mythology—­how, when, and by what stroke of genius he could make use of the stiff-chinned Rangar and convert him from being a rankling thorn into a useful aid.

He dared not poison him—­yet.  For the same reason he dared not put him to the torture, to discover, or try to discover, what Mahommed Gunga’s real leanings were in the matter of loyalty to the Raj or otherwise.  He dared not let the man go, for forgiveness is not one of the virtues held in high esteem by men of Ali Partab’s race, and wrongful arrest is considered ground enough for a feud to the death.  It seemed he did not dare do anything!

He racked his opium-dulled brain for a suspicion of a plan that might help solve the difficulty, until his eye—­wandering around the courtyard—­fell on the black shape of a woman.  She was old and bent and she was busied, with a handful of dry twigs, pretending to sweep around the stables.