The minute they were up he put a padlock on the trap, and nailed it down to the beams as well.  Then, summoning Tom’s aid, he levered and shoved into place on top of it the heavy iron safe in which he kept his specimens and money.

“That’ll do for you, Chamu!” he said finally.  “I don’t care to keep a butler who takes guests into the cellar at this hour of night!  You may go.  I’ll give you your time in the morning.”

Chamu showed his teeth, by no means for the first time.  It was a favorite method of his for covering up bad service to fall back on his reference.

“Maharajah sahib who is recommending me will not be pleased at my dismissal!”

“You and your maharajah go to hell together!” Dick retorted.  “Tell him from me that I won’t have inquisitive people in my cellar!  Now go; there’s nothing more to talk about.  Fire the cook, too, as soon as he wakes!  Tell him I don’t like ground glass in my omelette!  Not been any in it?  Well, what do I care?  I don’t want any in it—­that’s enough!  I’m taking no chances.  Tell him he’s fired, and you two pull your freight together in the morning first thing!”

Ten minutes alone with Yasmini had worked wonders with Dick Blaine.  Given to making up his mind and seeing resolution through to stern conclusions, he was her stout ally from the moment when he unlocked the study door again until the end—­a good silent ally too busy, apparently, about his own affairs to be suspected.  Certainly Samson never suspected his real share in the intrigue—­Samson, the judge of circumstances, indiscretions, men and opportunity.

He sent Tom Tripe packing, with a flea in his ear for Chamu’s benefit, and a whispered word of friendship.  Later he drove Tess down-hill in the dog-cart, first changing his own disguise for American clothes because the saises might be up and about when he returned at dawn, and for them to see him in the costume of a sais would only have added to the risk of putting Gungadhura’s men on the scent of Yasmini.  Saises are almost the most prolific source of rumor, but he had a means of stilling their tongues.

There was little to say during the dark drive.  They were affectionate, those two, without too many words when it came to leave-taking, each knowing the other’s undivided love.  Tess had money—­a revolver—­ cartridges—­some food—­sufficient change of clothing for a week—­ sun-spectacles; he reassured himself twice on all those points.

“If you’re camel-sick, fetch it up and carry, on,” he advised, “it’ll soon pass.  Then a hot bath, if you can get it, before you stiffen.  Failing that, oil.”

The camels, with Yasmini and her women already mounted, were kneeling in the darkness outside the house of Mukhum Dass.

“Come!” called Yasmini.  “Hurry!”

Dick kissed his wife—­waved his hand to Yasmini—­helped Tess on to the last camel in the kneeling line—­and they were off, the camel-men not needing to shout to make those Bikaniri racers rise and start.  They were gone like ghosts into the darkness, making absolutely no noise, before Dick could steady his nervous horse.