"Well, Greyman! Have you brought any more news?" asked the civilian, in a tone intended to impress the Military Department with the fact that here was one grapnel out of the many which were being employed in bringing truth to the surface and securing safety. But the soldier, after one brief look at the newcomer, sat up and squared his own shoulders a bit.

"That depends, sir," replied James Greyman quietly, "whether it pays me to bring it or not. I told you last month that I could not undertake any more work, because I was leaving India. My plans have changed; and to be frank, I am rather hard up. If you could give me regular employment I should be glad of it." He spoke with the utmost deliberation, but the incisive finality of every word, taking his hearers unprepared, gave an impression of hurry and left the civilian breathless. James Greyman, however, having said what he had come to say, said no more. During the past week he had had plenty of time to make up his mind, or rather to find out that it was made up. For he recognized frankly that he was acting more on impulse than reason.

After he had buried poor little Zora away in accordance with the customs of her people, and paid his racing bets and general liabilities,--to do which he had found it necessary to sell most things, including the very horse he had matched against Major Erlton's,--he had suddenly found out, rather to his own surprise, that the idea of starting again on the old lines was utterly distasteful to him. In a lesser degree this second loss of his future and severing of ties in the past had had the same effect upon him as the previous one.

It had left him reckless, disposed to defy all he had lost, and prove himself superior to ill-luck. Then being, by right of his Celtic birth, imaginative, in a way superst.i.tious, he had again and again found himself thrown back, as it were, upon Kate Erlton's appeal for that chance, to bring which the Spirit might be, even now, moving on the waters. It was that, that only, with its swift touch on his own certainty that a storm was brewing, which had made him yield his point; which had forced him into yielding by an unreasoning a.s.sent to her suggestion that it might bring a chance of atonement with it. And now, in calm deliberation, he confessed that he might find his chance in it also; a better chance, maybe, than he would have had in England.

His only one, at any rate, for some time to come. Those gray-blue northern eyes with the glint of steel in them had, by a few words, changed the current of his life. The truth was unpalatable, but as usual he did not attempt to deny it. He simply cast round for the best course in which to flow toward that tide in the affairs of men which he hoped to take at its flood. Political employment--briefly, spy's work--seemed as good as any for the present.

"Regular employment," echoed the civilian, recovering from his sense of hurry. "You mean, I presume, as a news-writer."

"As a spy, sir," interrupted James Greyman.

The political light disregarded the suggestion. "Your acquirements, of course, would be suitable enough; but I fear there are no native courts without one. And the situation hardly calls for excess expenditure. But of course, any isolated _douceur_----"

His hearer smiled. "Call it payment, sir. But I think you must find job-work in secret intelligence rather expensive. It produces such a crop of mare's-nests; at least so I have found."

The suspicion of equality in the remark made the official mount his high horse, deftly.

"Really, we have so many reliable sources of information, Mr.

Greyman," he began, laying his hand as if casually on the papers before him. The action was followed by James Greyman's keen eyes.

"You have the proclamation there, I see," he said cheerfully. "I thought it could not be much longer before the police or someone else became aware of its existence. The Moulvie himself was here about a week ago."

"The Moulvie--what Moulvie?" asked the military magnate eagerly. The civilian, however, frowned. If confidential work were to be carried out on those lines, something, even if it were only ignorance, must be found out.

"The Moulvie of Fyzabad--" began James Greyman.

"And who--?"

"My dear sir," interrupted the other pettishly. "We really know all about the Moulvie of Fyzabad. His name has been on the register of suspects for months." He rose, crossed to a bookshelf, and coming back processionally with two big volumes, began to turn over the pages of one.

"M--Mo--Ah! Ma, no doubt. That is correct, though transliteration is really a difficult task--to be consistent yet intelligible in a foreign language is---- No. It must be under F in the first volume. F; Fy. Just so! Here we are. 'Fyzabad, Moulvie of--fanatic, tall, medium color, mole on inside of left shoulder.' This is the man, I think?"

"I was not aware of the mole, sir," replied James Greyman dryly, "but he is a magnificent preacher, a consistent patriot, a born organizer; and he is now on his way to Delhi."

"To Delhi?" echoed the civilian pettishly. "What can a man of the stamp you say he is want with Delhi? A sham court, a miserable pantaloon of a king, the prey of a designing woman who flatters his dotage. I admit he is the representative of the Moghul dynasty, but its record for the last hundred and fifty years is bad enough surely to stamp out sentiment of that sort."

"Prince Charles Edward was not a very admirable person, nor the record of the Stuarts a very glorious one, and yet my grandfather----" James Greyman pulled himself up sharply, and seeing an old prayer-book lying on the table, which, with the alternatives of a bottle of Ganges water and a copy of the _Koran_, lay ready for the discriminate swearing of witnesses, finished his sentence by opening the volume at a certain Office, and then placing the open book on the top of the proclamation.

"It will be no news to you, sir, that prayers of that sort are being used in all the mosques. Of course here, in Lucknow, they are for my late master's return. But if anything comparable to the '15 or the '45 were to come, Delhi must be the center. It is the lens which would focus the largest area, the most rays; for it appeals to greed as well as good, to this world as well as the next."

"Do you think it a center of disaffection now, Mr. Greyman?" asked the military magnate with an emphasis on the t.i.tle.

"I do not know, sir. Zeenut Maihl, the Queen, has court intrigues, but they are of little consequence."

"I disagree," protested the Political. "You require the experience of a lifetime to estimate the enormous influence----"

"What do you consider of importance, then?" interrupted the soldier rather cavalierly, leaning across the table eagerly to look at James Greyman. There was an instant's silence, during which those voices rehearsing were clearly audible. The tragedy had apparently reached a climax.

"That; and this." He pointed to the Proclamation, and a small fragment of something which he took from his waistcoat pocket and laid beside the paper. The civilian inspected it curiously, the soldier, leaving his chair, came round to look at it also. The sunny room was full of peace and solid security as those three Englishmen, with no lack of pluck and brains, stood round the white fragment.

"Looks like bone," remarked the soldier.

"It is bone, and it was found, so I heard in the bazaar to-day, at the bottom of a Commissariat flour-sack----"

James Greyman was interrupted by a relieved pshaw! from the Political.

"The old story, eh, Greyman! I wonder what next these ignorant fools----"

"When the ignorant fools happen to be drilled soldiers, and, in Bengal, outnumber our English troops by twenty-four to one," retorted James Greyman sharply, "it seems a work of supererogation to ask what they will do next. If I were in their place---- However, if I may tell you how that came into my hands you will perhaps be able to grasp the gravity of the situation."

"Won't you take a chair?" asked the soldier quickly.

James Greyman glanced at the Political. "No, thanks, I won't be long.

There is a cla.s.s of grain carriers called Bunjarahs. They keep herds of oxen, and have carried supplies for the Royal troops since time immemorial. They have a charter engraved on a copper breastplate. I've only seen a copy, for the original Jhungi and Bhungi lived ages ago in Rajpootana. It runs so:

"While Jhungi Bhungi's oxen Carry the army's corn, House-thatch to feed their flocks on, House-water ready drawn.

Three murders daily shriven, These rights to them are given, While Jhungi Bhungi's oxen Carry the army's corn."

"Preposterous," murmured the civilian. "That's at an end, anyhow."

"Naturally; for they no longer carry the corn. The method is too slow, too Eastern for our Commissariat. But the Oude levies used to employ them. So did I at the stables. This is over also, and when I last saw my _tanda_--that's a caravan of them, sir--they were sub-contracting under a rich Hindoo firm which was dealing direct with the Department.

They didn't like it."

"Still you can't deny that the growth of a strong, contented commercial cla.s.s with a real stake in the country----" began the civilian hurriedly.

"That sounds like the home-counties or a vestry board," interrupted his hearer dryly. "The worst of it, in this case, being that you have to get your content out of the petty dealers like these Bunjarahs. I came upon one yesterday telling a circle of admirers, in the strictest confidence of course, lest the _Sirkar_ should kill him for letting the cat out of the bag, that he had found that bit of bone at the bottom of a Commissariat sack he bought to mend his own. The moral being, of course, that it was safer to buy from him. But he was only half through when I, knowing the scoundrel, fell on him and thrashed him for lying. The audience approved, and a.s.sented to his confession that it was a lie; but only to please me, the man with the stick. And as for Jhungi, he will tell the tale with additional embellishments in every village to which the caravan goes; unless someone is there to thrash him if he does."

"Scoundrel," muttered the soldier angrily.

"Or saint," added James Greyman. "He will be that when he comes to believe his own story of having burned the sack rather than use it.

That won't be long. Then he will be much more dangerous. However, if there is no place vacant for me, sir----"

"If you would not mind waiting a minute----" began the military magnate, with a hasty look at the Political.

James Greyman bowed, and retired discreetly to the window. It looked out upon just such another garden as Kate Erlton's, and the remembrance provoked the cynical question as to what the devil he was doing in that galley. Racing was a far safer way of making money than acting as a spy; to no purpose possibly, at least so far as his own chance was concerned.

Yet five minutes after, when the Political was writing him out a safe conduct in the event of his ever getting into difficulties with the authorities, he interrupted the scratching of the pen to say, suddenly:

"If you would make it out in my own name, sir, I should prefer it.

James Sholto Douglas, late of the ----th Regiment."

"Hm!" said the military magnate thoughtfully when the new employee in the Secret Intelligence Department left the room. "So that is Jim Douglas, is it? I thought he was a service man by the set of his shoulders. Jim Douglas. I remember his case when I was in the A.-G.'s office."

"What was it?" asked the civilian curiously.

"Oh, a woman, of course. I forget the details, she was the wife of his major, a drunken beast. There was something about a blow, and she didn't back him up; saved her reputation, you understand. But he was an uncommonly smart officer, I know that."