Babu Sita Ram was supposed to be sitting tinder a punkah in the next room, with a locked door between him and his master.  He was staying late, by special request and as a special favor, to copy certain very important but not too secret documents in time for the courier next day.  There were just as many insects to annoy him, and the punkah flapped his papers too; but fat though he was, and sweat though he did, his smile was the smile of a hunter.  From time to time he paused from copying, stole silently to the door between the offices, gingerly removed a loose knot from a panel, and clapped to the hole first one, and then the other avidious brown eye.

Samson wished to goodness there was some one he dared consult with.  There were other Englishmen, of course, but they were all ambitious like himself.  He felt that his prospects were at stake.  News had reached the State Department (by channels Sita Ram could have uncovered for him) that Gungadhura was intriguing with tribes beyond the northwest frontier.

The tribes were too far away to come in actual touch with Sialpore, although they were probably too wild and childish to appreciate that fact.  The point was that Gungadhura was said to be promising them armed assistance from the British rear—­assistance that he never would possibly be able to render them; and his almost certain intention was, when the rising should materialize, to offer his small forces to the British as an inexpensive means of quelling the disturbance, thus restoring his own lost credit and double-crossing all concerned.  A subtle motive, subtly suspected.

It was no new thing in the annals of Indian state affairs, nor anything to get afraid about; but what the State Department desired to know was, why Sir Roland Samson, K. C. S. I., was not keeping a closer eye on Gungadhura, what did he propose as the least troublesome and quietest solution, and would he kindly answer by return.

All that was bad enough, because a “beau ideal commissioner” rather naturally feels distressed when information of that sort goes over his head or under his feet to official superiors.  But he could have got around it.  It should not have been very difficult to write a report that would clear himself and give him time to turn around.

But that very evening no less an individual than the high priest of Jinendra had sent word by Sita Ram that he craved the favor of an interview.

“And,” had added Sita Ram with malicious delight, “it is about the treasure of Sialpore and certain claims to it that I think he wants to see you.”

“Why should he come by night?” demanded Samson.

“Because his errand is a secret one,” announced the babu, with a hand on his stomach as if he had swallowed something exquisite.

So Samson was in a quandary, going over secret records getting ready for an issue with the priest.  His report had to be ready by morning, yet he hardly dared begin it without knowing what the priest might have in mind; and on his own intricate knowledge of the situation might depend whether or not he could extract, from a man more subtle than himself, information on which to base sound proposals to his government.  His reputation was decidedly at stake; and dangerous intrigue was in the air, or else the priest would never be coming to visit him.