After the priest had gone he talked matters over with Patali, while she stroked his aching head.  Whoever knows the mind of the Indian dancing girl could reason out the calculus of treason.  They are capable of treachery and loyalty to several sides at once; of sale of their affections to the highest bidder, and of death beside the buyer in his last extremity, having sold his life to a rival whom they loathe.  They are the very priestesses of subterfuge—­idolators of intrigue—­past—­mistresses of sedition and seduction.  Yet even Patali did not know the real reason why Gungadhura lusted for possession of that small house on the hill.  She believed it was for a house of pleasure for herself.

“Persuade the American gold-digger to transfer the lease of it,” she suggested.  “He is thy servant.  He dare not refuse.”

But Gungadhura had already enough experience of Richard Blaine to suspect the American of limitless powers of refusal.  He was superstitious enough to believe in the alleged vision of Jinendra’s priest, that the clue to the treasure of Sialpore would be found in the cellar of that house, where Jengal Singh had placed it; impious enough to double-cross the priest, and to use any means whatever, foul preferred, to get possession of the clue.  But he was sensible enough to know that Dick Blaine could not be put out of his house by less than legal process.  Patali, watching the expression of his eyes, mercurially changed her tactics.

“Today the court is closed,” she said.  “Tomorrow Mukhum Dass will go to file his paper and defeat the suit of Dhulap Singh.  He will ride by way of the ghat between the temple of Siva and the place where the dead Afghan kept his camels.  He must ride that way, for his home is on the edge of town.”

But Gungadhura shook his head.  He hardly dared seize Mukhum Dass or have him robbed, because the money-lender was registered as a British subject, which gave him full right to be extortionate in any state he pleased, with protection in case of interference.  He could rob Dick Blaine with better prospect of impunity.  Suddenly he decided to throw caution to the winds.  Patali ceased from stroking his head, for she recognized in his eyes the blaze of determination, and it put all her instincts on the defensive.

“Pen, ink and paper!” he ordered.

Patali brought them, and he addressed the envelope first, practising the spelling and the none too easily accomplished English.

“Why to him?” she asked, watching beside his shoulder.  “If you send him a letter he will think himself important.  Word of mouth—­”

“Silence, fool!  He would not come without a letter.”

“Better to meet him, then, as if by accident and—­”

“There is no time!  That cursed daughter of my uncle is up to mischief.  She has fled.  Would that Yum had her!  She went to Samson days ago.  The English harass me.  She has made a bargain with the English to get the treasure first and ruin me.  I need what I need swiftly!”