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He remembered the eagerness, the enthusiasm of Shere Ali. "But he's loyal," Linforth cried. "There is no one in India more loyal." "He was loyal, no doubt," said Ralston, with a shrug of his shoulders, and, beginning with his first meeting with Shere Ali in Lahore, he told Linforth all that he knew of the history of the young Prince.
The month was over before Linforth at last steamed out of the harbour at Marseilles. He was as impatient to reach Bombay as a year before Shere Ali had been reluctant. To Shere Ali the boat had flown with wings of swiftness, to Linforth she was a laggard. The steamer passed Stromboli on a wild night of storm and moonlight.
And so he's ready to run amuck. That's what it comes to." He turned away from the city as he spoke and took a step or two towards the flight of stone stairs which led down from the tower. "Where is Shere Ali now?" Linforth asked, and Ralston stopped and came back again. "I don't know," he said. "But I shall know, and very soon. There may be a letter waiting for me at home.
He turned the conversation into another channel, pluming himself upon his cleverness. But he forgot that the subtlest evasions of the male mind are clumsy and obvious to a woman, especially if the woman be on the alert. Sybil Linforth did not think Sir John had showed any cleverness whatever. She let him turn the conversation, because she knew what she had set out to know.
"It will be taken as a sign of faith?" asked Linforth. "And more than that," said the guide significantly. "This one thing done here in Ajmere to-day will be spread abroad through Chiltistan and beyond." Linforth looked more closely at the crowd. Yes, there were many men there from the hills beyond the Frontier to carry the news of Shere Ali's munificence to their homes.
"Whither did the Prince go?" The Babu shrugged his shoulders. "How should I know? They are not of my people, these poor ignorant hill-folk." He went on his way. Linforth was left with the assurance that now, indeed, he had really failed. He took the train that night back to Peshawur. Linforth related the history of his failure to Ralston in the office at Peshawur.
Linforth, fresh from the deep valleys of Chiltistan, was elated by the lights, the neighbourhood of people delicately dressed, and the subdued throb of music from muted violins. "I am the little boy at the bright shop window," he said with a laugh, while his eyes wandered round the room. "I look in through the glass from the pavement outside, and "
Men just as good and younger stand waiting at the milestones to carry on the torch. But in some cases I think it's a pity." "In Mr. Luffe's case?" asked Sybil Linforth. "Particularly in Luffe's case," said Sir John. Sir John had guessed aright. Shere Ali was in the conservatory, and Violet Oliver sat by his side. "I did not expect you to-night," she said lightly, as she opened and shut her fan.
Both men stood and listened to the groaning and creaking of the wheels for a few moments, and then Linforth said: "So, after all, you mean to let him go?" "No, indeed," answered Ralston. "Only now we shall have to fetch him out of Chiltistan." "Will they give him up?" Ralston shook his head. "No." He turned to Linforth with a smile.
"You do understand," said Ralston, quietly. Linforth's fingers worked. That pad of cotton seemed to him more sinister than even the cords. "For her!" he cried, in a quiet but dangerous voice. "For Violet," and at that moment neither noticed his utterance of her Christian name. "Let me only find the man who entered her room." Ralston looked steadily at Linforth.
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