Sita Ram dutifully locked the door on Samson’s side, and drew the curtain over it.  There was a small hole in the curtain, of peculiar shape—­ moths had been the verdict when Samson first noticed it, and Sita Ram had advised him to indent for some preventive of the pests; which Samson did, and the hole did not grow any greater afterward.

Samson had had to call a conference, much though he disliked doing it.  The rules for procedure in the case of native states included the provision of an official known as resident, whose duty was to live near the native ruler—­ and keep a sharp eye on him.  But Samson, prince of indiscretion, had seen fit three months before to let that official go home to England on long leave, and to volunteer the double duty in his absence.  The proposal having economic value, and there being no known trouble in Sialpore just then, the State Department had consented.

The worst of that was that there was no one now in actual close touch with Gungadhura.  The best of it was that there was none to share the knowledge of Samson’s underlying scheme—­which was after all nothing but to win high laurels for himself, by somewhat devious ways, perhaps, but justified in his opinion in the circumstances.  And the very worst of it was that good form and official precedent obliged him to call a conference before recommending certain drastic action to his government.  Having no official resident to consult, he had to go through the form of consulting somebody; and the more he called in, the less likelihood there was of any one man arrogating undue credit to himself.

They were ushered in presently by Sita Ram.  Ross, the principal medical officer came first; it was a pity he ranked so high that he could not be overlooked, but there you were.  Then came Sir Hookum Bannerjee, judge of the circuit court—­likely to have a lot to say without much meaning in it, and certainly anxious to please.  Next after him Sita Ram showed in Norwood, superintendent of police; one disliked calling in policemen, they were so interfering and tactless, but Norwood had his rights.  Then came Topham, acting assistant to Samson, loaned from another state to replace young Wilkinson, home on sick leave, and full-back on the polo team—­a quiet man as a rule, anxious to get back to his own district, and probably reasonably safe.  Last came Lieutenant-Colonel Willoughby de Wing—­small, brusk and florid—­acting in command of the 88th Sikh Lancers, and preferring that to any other task this side of heaven or hell;—­ “Nothing to do with politics, my boy,—­not built that way—­don’t like ’em—­ never understood ’em anyhow.  Soldiering’s my business.”

It was well understood it was to be a secret conference.  The invitations had been marked “Secret.”

“Suppose I lock the door,” suggested Samson by way of additional reminder; and he did that, resuming his chair with an expression that permitted just the least suggestion of a serious situation to escape him.  But he was smiling amiably, and his curled mustache did not disguise the corners of a wilful mouth.