He strode to the inner door and locked it and hid the key in an inside pocket of his tunic.

“And now, heavenborn,” he said, “I crave your leave to bring my half-brother to the presence!”

He scarcely waited for an answer, but walked to the window, leaned out of it and whistled.  A minute later he was answered by the sound of fingernails scrabbling on the outer door.  He turned the key and opened it.

“Enter!” he ordered.

Barefooted and ragged, but as clean as a soldier on parade and with huge knots of muscles bulging underneath his copper skin, a Rajput entered, bowing his six feet of splendid manhood almost to the floor.

“This, heavenborn, is my half-brother, son of a low-born border-woman, whom my father chose to honor thus far!  The dog is loyal!”

“Salaam!” said Ruth, with little interest.

“Salaam, memsahib!” muttered the shabby Rajput.  “Does any watch?” demanded the Risaldar in Hindustanee.  “Aye, one.”

“And he?”

“Is he of whom I spoke.”

“Where watches he?”

“There is a hidden passage leading from the archway; he peeps out through a crack, having rolled back so far the stone that seals it.”  He held his horny fingers about an inch apart to show the distance.

“Couldst thou approach unseen?”

The Rajput nodded.

“And there are no others there?”

“No others.”

“Has thy strength left thee, or thy cunning?”

“Nay!”

“Then bring him!”

Without a word in answer the giant turned and went, and the Risaldar made fast the door behind him.  Ruth sat with her face between her hands, trying not to cry or shudder, but obsessed and overpowered by a sense of terror.  The mystery that surrounded her was bad enough; but this mysterious ordering and coming to and fro among her friends was worse than horrible.  She knew, though, that it would be useless to question Mahommed Khan before he chose to speak.  They waited there in the dimly lighted room for what seemed tike an age again; she, pale and tortured by weird imaginings; he, grim and bolt-upright like a statue of a warrior.  Then sounds came from the stairs again and the Risaldar hurried to the door and opened it.

In burst the Risaldar’s half-brother, breathing heavily and bearing a load nearly as big as he was.

“The pig caught my wrist within the opening!” he growled, tossing his gagged and pinioned burden on the floor.  “See where he all but broke it!”

“What is thy wrist to the service of the Raj?  Is he the right one?”

“Aye!” He stooped and tore a twisted loin-cloth from his victim’s face, and the Risaldar walked to the lamp and brought it, to hold it above the prostrate form.  Ruth left the divan and stood between the men, terrified by she knew not what fear, but drawn into the lamplight by insuperable curiosity.

“This, heavenborn,” said the Risaldar, prodding at the man with his scabbard-point, “is none other than the High Priest of Kharvani’s temple here, the arch-ringleader in all the treachery afoot—­now hostage for thy safety!”