“Never mind!” he answered.  “Tell her what I say.  Those who obey and ask no unwise questions oftentimes receive rewards.”

Inside the office Samson sat elated, wiping his forehead and setting blotter over writing-paper lest sweat from his wrists make the ink run.  It was a bender of a night, but he saw his way to a brilliant stroke of statecraft that would land him on the heights of official approval forever.  Heat did not matter.  The man at the punkah had fallen asleep, but he did not bother to waken him.  Back at the knot-hole, babu Sita Ram watched him scribble half a dozen letters, tearing each up in turn until the last one pleased him.  Finally he sealed a letter, and directed it by simply writing two small letters—­r. s.—­in the bottom left-hand corner.

“Sita Ram!” he shouted then.

The babu let him call three times, for evidence of how hard it was to hear through that thick door.  When he came it was round by the other way in a hurry.

“You called, sir?”

“You need not copy any more of those documents tonight, Sita Ram.  I shall send a telegram in the morning and keep my report in hand for a day or two.  But there’s one more little favor I would like to ask of you.”

“Anything, sahib!  Anything!  Am only desirous to please your excellency.”

“Do you know a man named Tripe—­Tom Tripe—­drill-instructor to the Maharajah’s Guard?”

“Yes, sahib.”

“Could you find him, do you think?”

“Tonight, sahib?”

“Yes, tonight.”

“Sahib, he is usually drunk at night, and very rough!  Nevertheless, I could find him.”

“Please do.  And give him this letter.  Say it is from me.  He will know what to do with it.  Oh, and Sita Ram—­”

“Yes, sahib.”

“You will receive two days’ extra pay from me, over and above your salary, for tonight’s extra work.”

“Thank you, sahib.  You are most kind—­always most generous.”

“And—­ah—­Sita Ram—­”

“Sahib?”

“Say nothing, will you?  By nothing I mean nothing!  Hold your tongue, eh?”

“Certainly, sahib.  Aware of the honor of my confidential position, I am always most discreet!”

“What are you doing with that waste-basket?”

“Taking it outside, sahib.”

“The sweeper will do that in the morning.”

“Am always discreet, sahib.  Discretion is better part of secrecy!  Better to burn all torn-up paper before daylight always!”

“Very good.  You’re quite right.  Thank you, Sita Ram.  Yes, burn the torn paper, please.”

So Sita Ram, piecing together little bits of paper got a very good idea of what was in the letter that he carried.  The bonfire in the road looked beautiful and gladdened his esthetic soul, but the secret information thrilled him, which was better.  He crossed the river, and very late that night he found Tom Tripe, as sober as a judge, what with riding back and forth to the Blaines’ house and searching in a cellar and what-not.  He gave him the letter, and received a rupee because Tom’s dog frightened him nearly out of his wits.  Tom swore at the letter fervently, but that was Tom’s affair, who could not guess the contents.