“I know nothing of geology, I’m afraid.  I wonder if your husband knows about the so-called islands?  There are patches of British territory, administered directly by us, within the maharajah’s boundaries; and little islands of native territory administered by the maharajah’s government within the British sphere.”

“Something like our Indian reservations, I suppose?”

“Not exactly, but the analogy will do.  If your husband were to find gold—­ of any kind—­on one of our ‘islands’ within the maharajah’s territory, his contract with the maharajah would be useless.”

“Are the boundaries of the islands clearly marked?”

“Not very.  They’re known, of course, and recorded.  There’s an old fort on one of them, garrisoned by a handful of British troops—­a constant source of heart-burn, I believe, to Gungadhura.  He can see the top of the flag-staff from his palace roof; a predecessor of mine had the pole lengthened, I’m told.  On the other hand, there’s a very pretty little palace over on our side of the river with about a half square mile surrounding it that pertains to the native State.  Your husband could dig there, of course.  There’s no knowing that it might not pay—­if he’s looking for more kinds of gold than one.”

Tess contrived not to seem aware that she was being pumped.

“D’you mean that there might be alluvial gold down by the river?” she asked.

“Now, now, Mrs. Blaine!” he laughed.  “You Americans are not so ingenuous as you like to seem!  Do you really expect us to believe that your husband’s purpose isn’t in fact to discover the Sialpore Treasure?”

“I never heard of it.”

“I suspect he hasn’t told you.”

“I’ll bet with you, if you like,” she answered.  “Our contract against your job that I know every single detail of his terms with Gungadhura!”

“Well, well,—­of course I believe you, Mrs. Blaine.  We’re not overheard are we?”

Not forgetful of the Princess Yasmini hidden somewhere in the house behind her, but unsuspicious yet of that young woman’s gift for garnering facts, Tess stood up to look through the parlor window.  She could see all of the room except the rear part of the window-seat, a little more than a foot of which was shut out of her view by the depth of the wall.  A cat, for instance, could have lain there tucked among the cushions perfectly invisible.

“None of the servants is in there,” she said, and sat down again, nodding in the direction of a gardener.  “There’s the nearest possible eavesdropper.”

Samson had made up his mind.  This was not an occasion to be actually indiscreet, but a good chance to pretend to be.  He was a judge of those matters.

“There have been eighteen rajahs of Sialpore in direct succession father to son,” he said, swinging a beautiful buff-leather boot into view by crossing his knee, and looking at her narrowly with the air of a man who unfolds confidences.  “The first man began accumulating treasure.  Every single rajah since has added to it.  Each man has confided the secret to his successor and to none else—­father to son, you understand.  When Bubru Singh, the last man, died he had no son.  The secret died with him.”