“What do you make of that?” demanded Gungadhura.

The priest smiled.  One does not explain everything to a mere maharajah.  But the mere maharajah was in no mood to be put off with smiles just then.  As Yasmini got the story afterward from the bald old mendicant, whose piety had recently won him permission to bask on the comfortable carved stones just outside the window, Gungadhura burst forth into such explosive profanity that the high priest ran out of the room.  The mendicant vowed that he heard the door slam—­and so he did; but it was really Gungadhura, done with argument, on his way to put threat into action.

The mildest epithet he called Yasmini was “Widyadhara,” which meant in his interpretation of the word that she was an evil spirit condemned to roam the earth because her sins were so awful that the other evil spirits simply could not tolerate her.

“It is plain that the commissioner fears to let her go to Europe!” swore Gungadhura.  “Therefore it is plain that she and he have a plan between them to loot the treasure and say nothing.  Neither trusts the other, as is the way of such people!  He will not let her out of sight until he can leave India himself!”

“He has promised to send European memsahibs to call on her,” said the priest, and the maharajah gnashed his teeth and swore like a man stung by a hornet.

“That is to prevent me from using violence on her!  He will have frequent reports as to her health!  After a time, when he has his fingers in the treasure, he will not be so anxious about her welfare!”

“There was another matter that she told me,” said the priest.

“Repeat it then, Belly-of-Jinendra!  Thy paunch retains a tale too long!”

“Tripe, the drill-master, is a welcome guest at the house built by Jengal Singh.”

“What of it?”

“He may enter even when the sahibs are away from home.  The servants have orders to admit him.”

“Well?”

The priest smiled again.

“If it should chance to be true that the princess knows the secret of the treasure, and that she is selling it to the commissioner, Tripe could enter that house and discover the clue.  Who could rob you of the treasure once you knew the secret of its hiding-place?”

It was at that point that the maharajah grew so exasperated at the thought of another’s knowledge of a secret that he considered rightly his own by heritage, that his language exceeded not only the bounds of decorum but the limits of commonplace blasphemy as well.  Turning his back on the priest he rushed from the room, slamming the door behind him.  And, being a ruminant fat mortal, the priest sat so still considering on which side of the equation his own bread might be buttered as to cause the impression that the room was empty; whereas only the maharajah had left it.  And a little later the babu Sita Ram came in.

Gungadhura was in no mood to be trifled with.  He knew pretty well where to find Tom Tripe during any of the hours of duty, so he cornered him without delay and, glaring at him with eyes like an animal’s at bay, ordered him to search the Blaine’s house at the first opportunity.