“There is no hurry,” said Yasmini.  “He will not be here for five minutes and he is a fool in any case.  He is walking his horse up-hill.”

Tess too had seen the beggar on the rock remove his ragged turban, rewind it, and then leisurely remove himself from sight.  The system of signals was pretty obviously simple.  The whole intriguing East is simple, if one only has simplicity enough to understand it.

“Can your horse be seen from the road?” Yasmini asked.

“No, miss.  The saises are attending to him under the neem-trees at the rear.”

“Then ask the memsahib’s permission to pass through the house and leave by the back way.”

Tess, more amused than ever, nodded consent and clapped her hands for Chamu to come and do the honors.

“I’ll wait here,” she said, “and welcome the commissioner.”

“But you, Your Ladyship?” Tom Tripe scratched his head in evident confusion.  “I’ve got to account for you, you know.”

“You haven’t seen me.  You have only seen a man named Gunga Singh.”

“That’s all very fine, missy, but the butler—­that man Chamu—­he knows you well enough.  He’ll get the story to the maharajah’s ears.”

“Leave that to me.”

“You dassen’t trust him, miss!”

Again came the golden laugh, expressive of the worldly wisdom of a thousand women, and sheer delight in it.

“I shall stay here, if the memsahib permits.”

Tess nodded again.  “The commissioner shall sit with me on the veranda,” Tess said.  “Chamu will show you into the parlor.”

(The Blaines had never made the least attempt to leave behind their home-grown names for things.  Whoever wanted to in Sialpore might have a drawing-room, but whoever came to that house must sit in a parlor or do the other thing.)

“Is it possible the burra-sahib will suppose my horse is yours?” Yasmini asked, and again Tess smiled and nodded.  She would know what to say to any one who asked impertinent questions.

Yasmini and Tom Tripe followed Chamu into the house just as the commissioner’s horse’s nose appeared past the gate-post; and once behind the curtains in the long hall that divided room from room, Tom Tripe called a halt to make a final effort at persuasion.

“Now, missy, Your Ladyship, please!”

But she had no patience to spare for him.

“Quick!  Send your dog to guard that door!”

Tom Tripe snapped his fingers and made a motion with his right hand.  The dog took up position full in the middle of the passage blocking the way to the kitchen and alert for anything at all, but violence preferred.  Chamu, all sly smiles and effusiveness until that instant, as one who would like to be thought a confidential co-conspirator, now suddenly realized that his retreat was cut off.  No explanation had been offered, but the fact was obvious and conscience made the usual coward of him.  He would rather have bearded Tom Tripe than the dog.