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Updated: May 25, 2025
Linforth looked back upon the Indrakotis struggling and scrambling and burning themselves on the steps about the vast caldrons, and the crowd waiting and clamouring below. It was a scene grotesque enough in all conscience, but Linforth was never further from smiling than at this moment. A strong intuition made him grave.
"Yes, news which his Highness Wafadar Nazim thinks it good for you to know"; and the voice in the darkness rose to insolence. Luffe strained his eyes downwards. He could see nothing. He listened, but he could hear no whispering voices. He hesitated. He was very anxious to hear news of Linforth. "I will let you in," he cried; "but if there be more than one the lives of all shall be the price."
She had what she had wanted that was clear. A collar of pearls, fastened with a diamond bow, encircled her throat. A great diamond flashed upon her bosom. Was she satisfied? Did no memory of the short week during which she had longed to tread the road of fire and stones, the road of high endeavour, trouble her content? Linforth was curious. She was not paying much heed to the talk about the table.
The Pathan translated: "His Highness the Prince would be glad to know what your Excellency means by interrupting him." Linforth flushed with anger. But he had his mission to fulfil, if it could be fulfilled. "What's the use of making this pretence?" he said to Shere Ali. "You and I know one another well enough." And as he ended, Shere Ali suddenly leaned over the balustrade of the balcony.
Linforth, in addition, was aware of a barely perceptible start made by Sir John at her side. She looked at him sharply. His face had grown grave. "You know her?" asked Mrs. Linforth. There was anxiety in her voice. There was also a note of jealousy. "Yes." "Who is she?" "Mrs. Oliver. Violet Oliver." "Married!" "A widow. I introduced her to your son at La Grave in the Dauphiné country last summer.
There were guards to protect him, but it seems they did not watch well. Huzoor, all have been punished, but punishment will not bring Sahib Linforth to life again. Therefore hear the words of Wafadar Nazim, spoken now for the last time. He himself will escort you and your soldiers and officers to the borders of British territory, so that he may rejoice to know that you are safe.
Thus it fell to Ralston to explain, twenty-six years later, the saying of a long-forgotten Political Officer which had seemed so dark to Colonel Dewes when it was uttered in the little fort in Chiltistan. There was a special danger for the best in the upbringing of the Indian princes in England. Linforth flushed as he listened to the tirade, but he made no answer.
Shere Ali did not take the hand outstretched to him; he did not move; neither did he speak. He just stood with his eyes fixed upon Linforth. But there was recognition in his eyes, and there was something more. Linforth recalled something that Violet Oliver had told to him in the garden at Peshawur "Are you going to marry Linforth?"
Violet Oliver's instincts had taught her the truth, which Ralston was now learning. Linforth could be very hard. There was nothing left of the friendship which through many years had played so large a part in his life. A woman had intervened, and Linforth had shut the door upon it, had sealed his mind against its memories, and his heart against its claims.
"He has not yet come," and even as he turned again to look down into that strange gulf of steps the man with the gold-hemmed turban changed his attitude and showed Linforth the profile of his face. Linforth was startled. "Is that the Prince?" he exclaimed. He saw a man, young to be sure, but older than Shere Ali, and surely taller too. He looked more closely.
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