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hands in a broad Bokhariot belt, the Chinese girl’s ivory hand made a signal
and vanished. The Afghan’s beard, new-dyed, lent red to the glare of angered
cunning in his wind-wild eyes. But his lips smiled, showing strong teeth
stained with pan. His Bokhariot coat hung loosely and revealed a silk shirt
that hinted at rubbery muscle beneath. His coned cap. turbaned in silk, sat
jauntily. His curved, coarse nose, that spread until the curves went astray
in the fierce mustache, twitched. He rubbed it—but that might have been
to attract attention to the ruby in the ring on his middle finger.
    “ Mashallah ! God’s wonders never cease!” he said in Pushtu. “Ismail
ben Alif Khan is—”
    “Warrender of the police. What are you doing in Bombay, Zaman Ali?”
    “Praised be God, I sold my horses. Please God, I shall now learn why I was
watched— from the Pass to Peshawar—to Delhi—to
Umballa— to Nuklao—to Ahmedabad—to Cawnpore— to
Poona—to Bombay. A Pathan I knew you were not. Had I known you are
Warrender—”
    His fingers, stained and calloused, closed on an imaginary weapon.
    “Peace! Not in my house!” Wu Tu warned in a sharp voice. She. too, spoke
in Pushtu. Blair answered in English, “Don’t be a damned fool, Zaman Ali. The
door’s locked,, and you’ve nine men. But did Chetusingh tell you the house is
surrounded? You didn’t expect that, did you?”
    “What of it?” Zaman Ali shrugged his shoulders. Then he swaggered to the
divan and sat beside Wu Tu, drawing his legs up under him. Almost
imperceptibly she shrank away; and almost he contrived to look as if he owned
the place. But there was something lacking. He was not quite at his ease.
    “Where did you come from to Peshawar?” Blair demanded. “You didn’t bring
your string of horses down the Khaiber. They were a blind. You picked them up
in Peshawar. I know who sold them to you.”
    The Afghan stared, not answering.
    “What did you do in Rajputana?”
    “Allah! Where I was not, what did I? That is a good conundrum!”
    “When did you last see Brigadier-General Frensham?”
    Insolently, Zaman Ali called to the Chinese girl in the corridor to fetch
his water-pipe. Then: “I never heard of him.” he answered.
    “Do you think in the jail you might remember?”
    “Allah!” Zaman Ali glanced at Wu Tu. but she avoided his eyes. She glanced
at the door behind the screen. Blair strode to the door and kicked the panel.
The door opened inward a few inches, struck something or someone and shut
with a thud. A bolt clicked.
    “Where is Chetusingh?” he demanded.
    “Dead,” said Zaman Ali. “Where did you suppose he is?”
    Wu Tu laughed at that. The wolf-yelp overtone was nearer than it had been.
She lighted a cigarette and looked straight at Blair, then leaned back
lazily, blowing smoke-rings.
    “Dead.” she said. “Perhaps. But you prove it!”
    “Prove it, yes,” said Zaman Ali. “That will be a piece of work for the
police!”
    “You surround my house,” said Wu Tu. “Don’t you think I knew that?”
    “There’s a secret passage from your cellar to the yard behind Grish Lal’s
godown. Did you know I knew it?” Blair retorted. “That’s blocked.”
    Wu Tu looked slightly startled, but the look in her eyes changed to
clouded cunning. She shrugged a bit further away from Zaman Ali.
    “I’m going to look for Chetusingh,” said Blair. He reached the doorway in
three strides, turned facing them and backed through the curtain, colliding
with the Chinese girl. He groped for her—he was watching for a move by
Wu Tu or Zaman Ali. His hand closed on her neck and she offered no
resistance. When he glanced at her she blew cigarette smoke in his face.
    He shoved her along in front of him and tried the door of the next room,
twenty feet along giving passage. It appeared to be locked, but he could hear
laughter and music. The Chinese girl suddenly thrust at his eyes with her
lighted