Then there was the murder of Mukhum Dass.  He had not been able to resist that opportunity, when Patali reported to him what Mukhum Dass had been seen to make away with.  And now he had the secret of the treasure in his possession—­implicit directions, and a map!  He suspected they had been written by some old priest, or former rajah’s servant, in the hope of a chance for treachery, and hidden away by Jengal Singh with the same object.  There were notes on the margins by Jengal Singh.  The thing was obviously genuine.  But the worst of it was Patali knew all about it now, and that cursed idiot Blaine had complained to Samson of burglary, after he learned that the cellar door was broken open by the money-lender.  Why hadn’t he come to himself, he wondered, and been satisfied with a string of promises?  That would have been the courteous thing to do.  Instead of that, now Samson’s spies were nosing about, and only the gods knew what they might discover.  The man who had done the murder was safely out of the way—­ probably in Delhi by that time, or on his way there; but that interfering ass Norwood might be awake for once, and if the murderer should happen to get caught, and should confess—­as hired murderers do sometimes—­it would need an awful lot of expert lying and money, too, to clear himself.

With funds—­ample extravagant supplies of ready cash, he felt he could even negotiate the awkward circumstance that he himself was deeply in debt to Mukhum Dass at the time of the murder.  Money and brains combined can accomplish practically anything.  Delhi and Bombay and Calcutta were full of clever lawyers.  The point was, he must hurry.  And he did not dare trust any one with knowledge of his secret, except Patali, who had wormed out some and guessed the rest, because of the obvious risk of Samson getting wind of it through spies and so forestalling him.  He felt he had Samson’s character estimated nicely.

Arguing with himself—­distracted between fear on one hand, and Patali’s importunity on the other, he reached the conclusion that Dick Blaine was his only safe reliance.  The American seemed to have an obsession for written contracts, and for enforcing the last letter of them.  Well and good, he would make another contract with Dick Blaine, and told Patali so, she agreeing that the American was the safest tool to use.  She saw herself already with her arms up to the shoulders in the treasure of Sialpore.

“The American has few friends,” she said.  “He smokes a pipe, and thinks, and now that they say his wife has gone away there is less chance than ever of his talking.”

“He will need to be paid,” said Gungadhura.

“There will be plenty to pay him with!” she answered, her eyes gleaming.

So Gungadhura, with his face still heavily bandaged, drove in a lumbering closed carriage up the rough track to the tunnel Dick had blasted in the hill-side.  The carriage could not go close to the tunnel-mouth, because the track was only wide enough just there for the dump-carts to come and go.  So he got out and walked into the tunnel unattended.  Dick was used to seeing him about the works in any case and never objected to explaining things, several times over on occasion.