“What if he won’t give it back to you?” asked her husband.

“Oh, Dick, you’re a regular prophet of evil tonight!”

However, she withdrew the paper before the guard’s fingers, closed on it.  The next moment a figure like a phantom, making no noise, almost made her scream.  Dick produced a repeating pistol with that sudden swiftness that proves old acquaintance with the things, and the corporal of the guard sprang back with a shout of warning to his men, imagining the pistol was intended for himself.  Tess recovered presence of mind first.

“It’s all right, Dick.  Put the gun out of sight.”

She stretched out her hand and a cold nose touched her finger-ends, sniffing them.  A dog’s forefeet were on the shaft, and his eyes gleamed balefully in the carriage lamp light.

“Good Trotters!  Good boy, Trotters!”

She remembered Tom Tripe’s lecture about calling dogs by name, wondering whether the rule applied to owners only, or whether she, too, could make the creature “do this own thinking.”  Before she could decide what she would like the dog to think about he was gone again as silently as he had come.  The guard was thoroughly on the qui vive by that time, if not suspicious, then officious.  How should one protect the privacy of a palace gate if unknown memsahibs in dog-carts, with saises who knew English but did not answer when spoken to in the native tongue, were to be allowed to draw up in front of the gate at unseemly hours and remain there indefinitely.  The risaldar ordered Tess away without further ceremony, making his meaning plain by taking the horse’s head and starting him.

Dick Blaine drew the horse back on his haunches and cursed the man for that piece of impudence, in language and with mannerisms that banished forever any delusions as to his nationality; and it occurred to the officer that his extra complement of men, standing in a row like dummies at attention, were not there after all for nothing.  He despatched two of them at a run to Gungadhura’s palace, the one to tell the story of what had happened and the other to add to it whatever the first might omit.  Between them they were likely to produce results of some sort.

“Now we’re done for!” sighed Tess.  “No chance tonight, I’m afraid.  If only I’d done what she told me to and consulted with Tom Tripe first.  Better drive home now, Dick, before we make the case worse.”

The unreasonableness of the attempt convinced and discouraged her.  It was like a nightmare.  But as Dick reined the horse about there came out of the mist the sound of another horse at a walk, and two men marching in step.  Then a man’s voice broke the stillness.  Dick reined in, and a second later Trotters’ huge paws rested on the shaft again.  Tess could see his long, unenthusiastic tail wagging to and fro.

“Tom!” she called.  “Tom Tripe!”

“Coming, lady!”

Three figures emerged out of the gloom, one of them mounted and loquacious.