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Updated: May 25, 2025
A letter he expected from the Mahsudi tribe had not reached him. It was the very letter he had hoped to show to Samson in proof of Mahsudi villainy and his own friendship; but he rather feared it had fallen into secret service hands, in which case he might have a hard time to clear himself. Then there was the murder of Mukhum Dass.
"A Mahsudi got me with a martini at long range in the blockade of 1902," he said dryly. "Look! Did he get his from a spear or from an arrow?" Almost in the same spot, also on the dead man's left hand, was a scar so nearly like it that it needed a third and a fourth glance to tell the difference. They both bent over the bed to see it, and she laid a hand on his shoulder.
Samson cleared his throat, and read what be had to say, holding the paper straight in front of him. "I have a disagreeable task of informing Your Highness that your correspondence with the Mahsudi tribe is known to His Majesty's Government." Gungadhura scowled more deeply, but made no answer.
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the new man was a Mahsudi no sweeter to look at and no less treacherous for the fact. Also, that he had boils all over the back of his neck. He was not likely to be better tempered because of that fact, either. But it is an ill wind that blows no good to the Secret Service.
The Mahsudi, having surrendered and considering himself therefore absolved from further responsibility at least for the present, spat over the precipice and fingered gingerly the sore place where his boils had been. He yawned and dropped both hands to his side; and it was at that instant that the Pathan sprang at him.
"Let him go!" growled Muhammad Anim. "Go thou! Stand guard over the women until I come!" The mullah turned a rifle this way and that in his paws, like a great bear dancing. The Mahsudi with a sore neck could have shot him perhaps, but there are men with whom only the bravest dare try conclusions.
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