Evan Llewellyn, Assistant Superintendent of Police, Malabar District, South India, came out of his office tent into the brilliant morning sunlight. The buttons of his uniform glinted in the golden rays to the great satisfaction of his camp servant, Ganjee. No one else noticed their polished surface. Yet if they had not shone with the lustre of the family plate, there would have been trouble for the factotum and his staff.
“Where’s the missie?” he asked.
“In sleeping tent, sir,” answered Rama one of the police peons. “I call missie.”
He rose to his feet with a quaint air of proprietorship to summon the Police Officer’s sister. Joan Llewellyn appeared at the call.
“Hallo, Evan, do you want me?”
“Yes; one minute. The post peon has just come up with the letters. Can you manage dinner not later than half past six for two men?”
“I daresay. When? To-morrow?”
“No, to-day, this evening.”
“Rather short notice. Cook has gone to market and it’s too far off to send him again. I can’t order anything special. Who are they? Planters from the Wynaad, Mr. Ellis and a friend? They will take pot luck——”
“It isn’t Ellis. It’s Major Carter and Captain Denning.”
“Another pair of shoes altogether. They come from a mess with a good mess cook complete. I’ve only got a camp coolie——”
“He does very well for us, and what’s good enough for us is good enough for Carter and Denning.”
“I’ll do my best, old dear; but you’re a nuisance, springing guests on me like this.”
“We have plenty of food in camp,” protested her brother.
“Oh, yes! ‘God sends the food but the devil sends the cook.’ However, as I said, I’ll do my best. Tell me, what on earth brings those two men up here? Charming in a ballroom and on parade and all that, I admit, but no acquisition to a junior Police Officer’s camp.”
“Sorry, Joan. Don’t worry. They are self-invited so they will not be critical. They will be in a hurry to get away, a short meal will please them. I must be off.”
“One minute, please. What are they doing here?”
“Carter is crazy over film photography. There has been a kill about five miles away from here and they want to sit up over it. Carter is to film it and Denning plays bodyguard and carries his rifle. He is not to fire till he hears the click.”
“Then the tiger will get away.”
“Carter won’t mind that as long as he secures his film.”
“Captain Denning will want something more than pictures. He will want the skin. Where are the two men now?”
“At the kill, putting up a machan and getting the apparatus ready. I have sent off a constable to help in procuring a gang of villagers. Our camp is the nearest spot where they can find a decent meal.”
“All right. I shan’t be able to give them fish,” remarked Joan, her thoughts concentrated on the menu.
“Never mind about the fish. They have plenty at their station.”
Llewellyn swung away down the forest path, followed by his police orderly, and his pony, led by the syce.
“Back at sunset,” he called over his shoulder without slackening his pace. Joan was accustomed to last words shouted at her. They only ceased when he had disappeared down or up the track.
“Turn them loose in my tent when they come.” A final word floated up from the jungle startling the wood-pigeons in the trees above.
“Baths!” he shouted.
“Right-oh!” But it was doubtful if her shrill treble reached his ears. It did not matter in the least if he missed it. He had the utmost confidence in Joan. Born and bred among her beloved Welsh hills she was a thorough “Maid of the Mountains,” and in her element, living in the beautiful glade chosen by Evan for his camping ground. The spot was central, within reach of headquarters and of certain rural stations in the hills.
There were several items of information that Joan would have been glad to pick up. Her brother had omitted to say when she might expect her visitors. He had made no mention of lunch. They might turn up in time for afternoon tea. And the hot baths? She had no supply of constant hot water running from a tap. All the water had to be heated on a fire of sticks and it was a one-boy job to keep the flames going.
What about sleeping accommodation? she suddenly thought with misgiving. Had she two pairs of clean sheets? She was obliged to send the linen back to headquarters to be washed and there was no linen cupboard in camp. Would they bring their own blankets? And what was Evan going to do about cots and camp kit? She supposed that their friends would want to come back to them after their exploits.
The old campaigner makes himself comfortable when camping out in India, but nothing is taken except what is absolutely necessary for the one person. Guests are left out of the reckoning altogether. An occasional visitor passing within hail of the camp may drop in for a meal unexpectedly. Anticipating nothing more than he will get, he gives very little trouble. A spare knife and fork and tumbler can be found for him. Anything else that is lacking can be made up for by the warmth of the welcome.
Two men accustomed to mess appointments, the best food procurable and a cook who could scarcely be called “devil-sent” were, as Joan said, another pair of shoes. But Carter and Denning were both by way of being old friends, coming from the station that was Llewellyn’s headquarters as well as theirs.
She was never a girl to be at a loss when events required something more than indifferent acquiescence. Even while her brother was striding off, intent only on the business of his profession, her thoughts were occupied with the hospitality she could offer. How could she get away from the everlasting mutton cutlets and roast bag of bones called a chicken by the optimistic Ganjee and his assistant cook?
The glade in which the camp was pitched was a veritable paradise blessed with as perfect a climate as can be found in the tropics. She was used to its loveliness by this time. It was a spot where the large forest trees stood clear from undergrowth and cast their deep shadows on coarse grass. The tramp of many feet had served more effectually than any garden roller to flatten out the ground without destroying the turf. A small mountain torrent that entered the glade at the upper end became a chain of small peaceful pools as it meandered towards the lower slopes. There it turned itself into foam as it took wild leaps down the mountain side.
A pigeon cooed in the jungle that bordered the glade. Joan awoke from her culinary brooding with a start. She hurried back to her tent with one word on her lips.
“Pie! pie! pigeon pie! I am sure the mess cook can’t give them real pigeon pie!”
She reappeared with a light rifle in her hands.
“Rama! Rama!” she called.
Her own special bodyguard hurried towards her with a ready response.
“I come, missie. I come!”
From the vicinity of the peons and servants tents advanced the young constable. He had been told off on special duty which he held as a sacred charge. His master had laid on him the responsibility of acting as bodyguard to the missie. Never was she to be allowed to walk in the jungle or climb the mountain paths without him. He was to follow, to keep her in sight and to guard her from any accident that might hurt or alarm her.
At first she resented his protection, but before long she not only became accustomed to it, but learned to feel that his presence gave her more liberty than his absence. He was never in her pocket, so to speak, but he was always within hail. And when she wanted help in her climbing, a stout staff, crooked at the end, was held out for her to grip to be drawn up towards the heights that seemed almost inaccessible.
Rama had begun life in the servants’ quarters of no less a person than a judge. He had become dog-boy and then cook-boy and had picked up English from the time that he was a small child, toddling by his mother’s side as she went to the well to fetch water for the kitchen.
Later he had ambitions. The judge retired to England. An Indian succeeded to the appointment and to the house. The establishment was run on very different lines. Rama did not wait to be asked to continue his service as a promising young assistant cook. He despised domestic service with “native only,” as the judge’s old staff spoke in the kitchen of the new civil dignitary. Rama entered the police force with every intention of rising in time to the proud position of a head constable.
His training in a European household served him well. He found himself singled out for service where his knowledge of English came in. When Joan arrived on a long visit to her brother, Rama was seconded for duty as constable in charge of the camp. As such he was able to look after the missie, and Llewellyn could leave camp or bungalow at headquarters without anxiety as to a fitting protector for his sister in his absence. She used to declare to her friends that Evan had put her under police supervision.
Rama took the rifle and the cartridge belt and followed his mistress into the jungle.
Joan was already familiar with the paths and game tracks that radiated from the camp. She had learnt the signs and sounds of the various creatures inhabiting the forest, the belling of the distant stag, the snarl of the leopard, the chattering of the monkey and the different notes of the birds. She recognised the tracks of the wild creatures that kept out of her sight but left traces of their presence in the mud of the stream, the furrows where the wild pig had rooted for grubs, the marks of the pointed hoofs of the sambur, the small paws of the porcupine, the tiny trail of the jungle rat. Even the curved ridges in a patch of river sand, made by the passing rock snake of the python species as it wound its sinuous way in search of frogs and small mammals, told their tale.
Joan was also becoming forest wise in her sense of direction and her knowledge of the wind. In the depths of the jungle the direction of the wind was lost, but clouds betrayed it and the bending of the tree tops. No two yards of any track were level. The path climbed up and down, often in an aimless manner. The wild animal had originally traced it, ages ago, in its search for food and water.
Joan took a narrow way that she knew led towards the top of the ridge that formed the valley in which the glade was situated. Now and then she stood still and listened. She was a little late for the morning chorus. The cooing had ceased, and dove and pigeon were feeding. They were busy among the foliage feasting on forest fruit. They could see her, but she was unable to distinguish their gleaming plumage from the glistening foliage of the trees.
Half an hour passed without giving her the opportunity of a single shot. By this time she had climbed a good bit higher than the camp. She was not far off the top of the ridge. Rama drew her attention to a figure seated on a bare rock to their left.
“The Kuruva, missie,” he said.
“Govind, the magician,” she responded. She raised her hand and waved to him.
The old man rose to his feet like a large bird of prey that had been resting on some favourite perch forming a point of observation. He removed a coarse dark blanket that he had hung about his shoulders. It might have been a pair of wings which he stretched before taking flight. He came towards them and salaamed as he reached the spot where she stood. All three were well acquainted with each other. Govind was a frequent visitor at the camp.
“Old father of the forest,” she said, using a term she had often heard on her brother’s lips. “Tell me where are the pigeons?”
Rama translated her question into the language common to the tribes of the Ghauts and the villagers of the district.
“They hide and feed. Does your honour want pigeons?”
“Yes, for the master’s dinner.”
“Has the cook with his bazaar basket fallen into the river?”
“We have visitors; two of the officers from the coast. Not knowing that they were coming the cook has not brought sufficient for dinner. I must have a pigeon pie to make enough. Where can I find the birds?”
Govind looked back into the valley from which they had climbed and waved his hand to the sea of green foliage below. Far down nearer the camp she could distinguish the birds rising above the tops of the trees and circling round in short flights after the manner of pigeons all the world over.
“I must get them somehow on my way back.”
“Cross the river by the stepping stones, missie. There are five or six trees near the water where the pigeons make their nests, and the peon must throw sticks at them,” said Govind.
He slung his blanket over his shoulders preparatory to resuming his way. As Joan’s eyes rested on him a thought crossed her brain. If he could show her the birds, why should he not take her to some spot where she could get a deer? Venison in India is not hung. If young and cooked a few hours after it is killed, it makes a pleasant change from the continual mutton and chicken.
“Stop!” she cried with a sudden impulse. She turned to Rama. “Ask Govind if he can show me a deer. It should be young and not fully grown.”
The Kuruva did not reply immediately.
“Tell him,” continued Joan, “that I will give him half a rupee if he will put me in the way of securing a deer. No deer, no pay.”
“He says he can show what missie wants.”
Joan, who was carrying her rifle, changed the cartridge in readiness for the larger game. Govind led the way. They climbed to the top of the ridge. The jungle thinned into scrub and tussocks of windblown grass, where it could find root-hold in the boulder-strewn rocky soil.
The Kuruva and the peon moved silently. They slipped their feet under the dried twigs and leaves that might crack with any weight put upon them. Not once did either of them set a pebble rolling on the steep slope over which they were passing. Joan tried with infinite care to follow their example, but now and then something snapped or crackled beneath her boots or a stone moved.
They reached the summit, and Govind made them lie down. A few stunted bushes, leaning away from the south-west were all the cover available. Here and there a boulder or piece of rock jutting out of the hill-side offered a shelter.
The Kuruva signed to Joan to crawl a little higher up to a larger group of bushes. She peered through the network of twigs and looked down into the next valley. Great masses of jungle spread over mountain and gorge. Weather-worn precipices and bare headlands rose out of the limitless vegetation towards the sun. In the far distance beyond the foothills the undulations were lost in a line of deep blue. The heat haze on the coast, hid the Indian Ocean that later on in the day, as the sun passed to the west, might reveal itself by a magic line of silver.
Joan’s sharp eyes swept the landscape and came to rest on a glade below, like that in which her brother had camped. Govind whispered to Rama. He need not have feared to speak out. They were too far off the bottom of the valley to be heard unless they shouted.
“Missie must watch,” said Rama. “The deer will come into the glade from the forest and cross over to the cooler shade. The Kuruva begs leave to go. A man waits for him down the hills near the camp.”
“All right. He can go. I’ll give him the money after I get the deer.”
The old man salaamed and turned down the hill, retracing his steps in a loping walk. He followed the track by which they had come. Joan settled herself as comfortably as it was possible, and prepared for a vigil of fifteen or twenty minutes or, it might be, for a couple of hours.
By this time the sun was well above the Ghauts, pouring its warm rays into every gorge and ravine. The monkeys had arrived at their feeding grounds and were stuffing their cheeks with the fruit of the wild fig. The deer, sambur and cheetal, after their night’s browsing, were pushing their way still deeper into the shade, where the sun-loving flies were a little less troublesome than in the more open tracts.
At the end of half an hour one of a herd of spotted deer emerged from the jungle bordering the glade. It was a half-grown hind. It had been pushed out of the shade by the stronger beasts and was receiving too much attention from the flies. It stood on the edge of the forest, stamping its feet and shaking its head after the manner of a heifer in a meadow.
Joan watched intently, lying prone behind the bush. She had a chequered view through the maze of branches of the shrub. No movement of the unsuspecting animal escaped her. She must give it time to come away from the thicket of undergrowth that walled in the forest.
At the end of five minutes the hind reconciled itself to its fate and picked its way through the rough grass towards the other side of the glade.
By all the rules of compassion Joan should have spared it, but she bore in mind the dire needs of her larder. What were half a dozen thin meagre mutton chops and a scraggy fowl among four hungry people? It was no time to be squeamish. At the cost of all sentimentality she must bag the hind.
“Sorry, my little dear, but you must die like the spring lamb,” she said to herself, as her fingers took a steady grip of the rifle.
She was about to lift it to her shoulder and thrust it through the twigs when the hind gave a terrific leap and was gone. It was as if it had actually heard the verdict and had fled in terror. She had not spoken aloud nor had she made a sound of any kind. Rama had remained absolutely still under cover of the boulder behind which he lay. Neither of them had been on the sky-line for a single instant.
Joan was disappointed, not to say annoyed. She remained perfectly still, her eyes on the spot where the hind had disappeared. She was watching for a sign of the cause of the deer’s sudden alarm. If it had scented a leopard it might have behaved in this way, or if some human being were approaching down wind. But no object was visible in the glade that could have startled it. The birds showed no alarm and the colony of monkeys, some on the ground and some in the trees, continued their morning meal without perturbation.
At the end of five minutes intense watching Joan raised herself into a sitting position. She glanced at Rama. He had been as motionless and observant as herself.
“Peon! what frightened the deer?” she asked.
He did not answer immediately. She repeated her question.
“Can’t say, missie.”
“Something startled it. We neither of us made any sound.” She looked at him for an answer but he had none to give. She was confident that he could have offered some explanation had he chosen, but it was never easy to draw from any man born in the district reasons for his beliefs. They were of the nature of superstitions which he had learnt to be shy of repeating, because he knew that the white man in his heart scorned the Indian’s occultism.
“No use waiting here any longer. The cheetal will not show itself again,” said Joan, rising to her feet. “We must hope for better luck with the birds.” She glanced round and caught sight of the pigeons. She strode off in their direction. From the higher part of the ridge she could see the point where she had encountered the Kuruva. Before plunging once more into the jungle she turned to Rama.
“Where was the Kuruva when we sighted the deer?” she asked abruptly.
“Your honour saw him walk away after he had spoken with us. He entered the jungle and went towards the camp by the way we came.”
“But was that so?”
The peon did not reply.
“He must have returned to the ridge without our seeing him and he frightened the deer before I could shoot.” Still he remained silent. “Govind is of the jungle, and he is the friend of all jungle beasts,” she added.
Rama made a sign in the affirmative.
“He speaks their language.” Again the peon made the sign that he and his mistress were in agreement. “And he went near the herd where he could talk to them and tell them to hide,” she said.
“May be, missie,” he replied at length. It was not his solution of the cause of the hind’s flight.
Joan made no further remark. She was in a hurry to secure her pigeons and return to camp. The birds were plentiful at the spot indicated by Govind. Whatever may have been his mental attitude towards the feathered tribes, he had sent them no warning that an enemy was near their roosting place, picking them off with an accurate aim. Joan was a good shot.
The first object that met Joan’s sight as she came up to the kitchen tent was the figure of the Kuruva sitting on his heels near the fire of sticks that was usually burning outside the tent. In the blue smoke he reminded her of the genie of a fairy-tale. He met her eye steadily but did not speak.
“I saw the deer but it escaped,” she said.
Govind blinked his small black eyes like a wanderoo monkey that was not quite sure of the treatment it would receive. He extended a gnarled hand that looked as if the blood had long since left it.
“I said half a rupee if I killed the deer. I only saw it. There’s an anna for you. If I had bagged it you should have had the eight annas.”
Govind’s eyes glistened at the sight of the two copper coins which she tossed to him. He secreted them in the scant drapery that bound his loins. Rising to his feet he moved swiftly towards the jungle. It absorbed him as the foliage seemed to absorb the pigeons.
When Joan had given her directions to the cook about the pie and all it was to contain, she enquired the exact hour at which the Kuruva appeared in camp. She was told. If the cook spoke correctly the old man must have come straight from the ridge to the camp. He could not possibly have diverted his steps to give man or beast warning of any impending danger. The flight of the deer was due to chance, to its natural nervousness and hereditary fear, was her conclusion.
After she had gone to her tent for her bath Rama was questioned. He described the incident. Aided by an oriental imagination he added a touch here and there. The hind had been moving quietly into the open sunlight when suddenly it lifted its head, pricked its ears and listened. At that moment the missie was about to lift the rifle to shoot.
“What did it hear?” asked the cook.
“Someone spoke to it,” replied Rama, his eyes roaming all round the little circle of his hearers, as though he feared the sudden reappearance of the magician.
No one ventured to ask who the person was. They all understood.
“That man—” they did not venture to speak his name! It was not necessary. “He can send messages as he chooses.”
“How?” breathed the cook’s boy, whose curiosity was insatiable.
“He does not need the wires like our master,” was the answer.
“Then who carries his messages?”
“Is not the jungle full of demons large and small, some as big as the elephant himself, others as small as the flying creatures that get in the ears and eyes? They are servants. They obey those who know how to command them as we obey the big police master. The Kuruva has his peons.”
Just as the sun was dropping down into the Indian Ocean, Joan’s quick ears detected the sound of voices, the English voices of her expected friends, as they entered the camp. She had changed into an afternoon frock that would serve for the alfresco dinner.
As she went forward to meet them they could not but think that of all the pleasant sights of the forest she was the fairest. The hill air had brought the colour to her cheeks and the light to her eyes. She presented a contrast to the pale languid Englishwomen of the military station, on the west coast of the Peninsula, where the detachment of troops was stationed. The warm moist climate robbed them of their vitality and youth. By their arts they might restore the rose-leaf tints to the skin. But they were totally unable to throw off the lethargic mentality that obsessed them. The sparkling good spirits with which they had begun their voyage to the East had faded and left them limp and nerveless. Joan ran forward with extended hand.
“So you have found your way here safely,” she cried.
“Your brother sent a police peon to show us the way. The man met us at the kill and helped with our gang of villagers in building the machan. I think we have fixed up everything.”
She took her guests to her brother’s tent and left them in Ganjee’s hands. A little later Evan Llewellyn returned, tired but pleased to find the two men, who by this time were rested and refreshed and ready for dinner.
The table was laid under one of the big trees in the glade. Hurricane lanterns had to serve in the place of gas and electricity. Rama was fully occupied in beating and brushing away the insects that were drawn to the lights.
Joan was eager to hear news about the tiger and its evil doings. A young buffalo had been killed near a village about five miles distant down the hills. Carter expatiated on the difficulties connected with photography under the circumstances. He had never done any picture-making from a tree. The apparatus did not lend itself to the narrow confines of a machan. He had been in North India where the facilities for filming were in his opinion greater.
“I can’t say that I like this sitting up in a tree. What I should much prefer would be a good drive.”
“Impossible in our forests. Here you are dealing with thick jungle, not open grass country, such as you have farther north, where you can use elephants. In these jungles the animals move along game tracks that they or rather their forebears have marked out centuries ago,” said Llewellyn.
“Is there no possibility of getting a sight of them in the open?”
“Not for your purpose. The game tracks are like tunnels in the undergrowth. You might have a better chance at a waterhole, but there again you are up against a difficulty. We have no waterholes up here. The rivers never go dry on the hills. The animals can drink where they choose.”
“Do you shoot, Miss Llewellyn?” asked Denning.
“Rather! You are appreciating that pigeon pie, I hope? You have to thank me for it.”
Of course he praised it, an easy task since he was enjoying it.
“I had bad luck, however, in one respect, or I should have been able to give you a saddle of venison. I felt sure that I should bag a deer, but it got away before I could fire.”
She described the incident. The three men listened.
“It was frightened, you say?” said her brother. “You must have made unconsciously some sound or movement.”
“I am perfectly certain that I did not,” she replied.
“The sight of the deer is as good as its hearing, and if it had seen you on the skyline against the light, it would have jumped out of its skin.”
“I was behind a bush that Govind himself chose for me as a screen.”
“Govind! Was he there?”
“We met him on the ridge near the top.”
“Did he wait while you watched for the deer?”
“No, he went away at once, straight to the camp. The deer appeared about half an hour after he left. I watched it for some time so as to get a clear shot. It was wood-bound till it came out into the glade.”
Llewellyn did not reply.
“Then what did it do?” asked Denning.
“Behaved as if someone spoke to it and ‘shooed’ it away.”
“I’ve seen game act in exactly the same way. I never could account for it except by thinking that something I could neither see nor hear myself had startled it. There might have been something in the jungle behind it.”
“If that were so,” said Joan, “the rest of the herd to which it belonged would have gone off in the same way.”
“Were there birds and monkeys about?”
“Plenty; but they showed no sign of alarm.”
“They have a wonderful way of giving warning of the presence of an enemy, like the jays in a wood at home,” said Denning.
“The deer seemed as if the warning came straight to it and to no one else.”
Denning left it at that. He was not superstitious, but he had an open mind and was observant.
“Have you ever been out after tiger?” he asked presently.
“I’ve never had the chance. On one occasion I longed desperately to be allowed to stalk a horrible beast. I know now that it would have been madness.”
She launched forth into the tale of a child that had been captured by a tiger. Indignation and anger rang in her voice. The little boy had been taken from a village and carried by a tigress to her lair. He was given alive to the cubs to play with, as a cat will give a mouse to her kittens.
“The poor mother heard the boy calling for help and shrieking as if wounded by the rough play of the cubs. No one could get near the lair. The villagers tried to smoke the brute out, but a wild charge scattered them. After the charge the child became silent. Presumably it was killed outright. We could only hope so. I badly wanted to go and slay that beast, but Evan wouldn’t allow me.”
Joan’s eyes shone with anger at the memory of the tragedy. It had happened when she first arrived in India. The village was near one of her brother’s camps, and she knew the child. While the tiger and its cubs were haunting the jungle she could not ride or walk in the forest.
“Have you ever been stalked by a tiger?” asked Denning.
“Not by a tiger; but I am quite certain that I was followed by a leopard some months ago. We were higher up, nearer the plateau, not far off an old Mysore fort, a deserted ruin that stands on the edge of a precipice. The casemates and dungeons harbour all sorts of unpleasant creatures.”
“What did it feel like?” he asked.
“Very disagreeable, I can assure you.”
“How did you know that you were being stalked by a man-eater?”
“It wasn’t a man-eater. It was a leopard, not a tiger. It was after the pony, and the pony knew it. So did the syce. They were both frightened. The man, instead of following a few yards behind, came close up and walked by my side. They were both trembling. I wanted to increase my pace to a sharp trot, but the groom wouldn’t allow me to go out of a quick walk. He caught the rein and held the pony back. He said if we increased our pace the leopard would know that we were frightened and it would spring upon us at once.”
“You may have been mistaken if you didn’t actually see it.”
“It was no mistake,” put in Llewellyn, who had caught the end of her story. “We found traces of its presence afterwards, marks on the tree trunks where it had sharpened its claws as a cat does. There were other signs as well.”
“Where are tigers and leopards most likely to be found on these Ghauts?” asked Carter, thinking of his camera.
“They don’t congregate anywhere. They wander like the cat which as Kipling says ‘walks.’”
Llewellyn had been stationed long enough in the district to have acquired a fair amount of forest lore. He understood the language of the villagers and the lingo of the forest folk who trafficked in honey, roots, firewood and forest produce—chiefly herbs and wild fruits.
“But surely their haunts must be known as well as their feeding grounds,” said Carter, who was new to the south of India.
“There is nothing regular about the habits of the feline race. They all ‘walk.’ Even the villager doesn’t discover their presence until he loses one of his cattle.”
“It’s an odd thing,” said the police officer presently, “that one never sees a tiger or a bear or an elephant that has died a natural death. Where for instance do the elephants go when they know that their end is near? They don’t turn rogues and get killed by sportsmen. Nor do they drop down just anywhere in the forest. We should find their bones if they did.”
“What do the jungle tribes say?”
“They have queer tales to tell if one can only get them to speak, but they are very shy of giving any information.”
“Why should they be?” asked Denning.
“They are too superstitious. They believe that the dead animals turn into ghosts and evil spirits that are the enemies of man.”
“The Kuruva, Govind, could tell us some wonderful stories if he chose,” cried Joan. “He has seen the ghosts of big tigers long since gone, much larger beasts than exist in the present day.”
Her brother smiled.
“It doesn’t do to believe all that the old fraud says. ‘What only missie wishing to hear, that only telling.’”
Joan took up the cudgels on behalf of the old man, whom she had known for many months and liked.
“Oh, no, Evan! That’s not quite fair. Govind doesn’t invent. He believes in all his legends. I only wish I understood his language better. We speak more by signs than words, but one wants more than signs for tales. I would make him tell me where the elephants die, where the tigers arrange their marriages and fight for their mates, and where the bears have their maternity homes.”
“Anyway he is always ready to earn a copper. Denning, if you want your bullets charmed I daresay we can arrange it for you,” said Llewellyn.
The two guests laughed. They had no faith in the beliefs and legends of the wild tribes of the Indian hills.
Dinner was over. Carter and Denning were in a hurry to get away. A moon that was nearly full was mounting the great peaks and ridges and flooding the country with fight.
“I have packed a tiffin-basket with supper for you,” said Joan.
“That’s very good of you, Miss Llewellyn, but shall we want it after the excellent dinner you have given us?” said Carter.
“Wait till the small hours of the morning and that question will answer itself.”
The two men looked doubtfully at the heavy basket of food. She caught the glance and understood. She called Rama.
“Is Govind anywhere about?” she asked.
There was a shout, and the answer came from a distance like the cry of some night bird.
“He is coming,” said Rama.
A few minutes later a figure emerged from the jungle and stood in the moonlight. A rag of red cotton material was twisted round his head by way of a turban. His feet and his long thin legs were bare. He held a stick that he had cut from the jungle, and in the stout piece of calico that bound his loins was stuck a hillman’s knife shaped like a sickle. His coarse black blanket was thrown over his bare shoulders.
“Will you carry this basket for these gentlemen?” asked Llewellyn.
“As master pleases,” was the reply.
Llewellyn turned to Carter, who was ready to start.
“Would you like the old man to stay with you all night?”
“No need for that. If he will carry the basket it will be sufficient. The fewer near the kill the better, if we are to see the tiger. About what time do you think we may expect him?”
“Any time after midnight.” He questioned Govind. “Their honours want to see the tiger,” he explained.
The Kuruva wagged his head as a sign that he understood. “And nothing must be done to frighten the beast away,” continued Llewellyn.
“Their honours will have a good view of it.”
Carter drew near, wishing with all his heart that he could speak the man’s language. The black eyes scarcely visible in the moonlight were fixed on Carter.
“I want to see the tiger come to the kill and eat,” he said.
Llewellyn translated. The Kuruva wagged his head with little assenting jerks. Then he spoke.
“The tiger will come softly. It will lie down and smell and lick, until it has chosen the place where it will eat. The best parts are already gone. There is meat left and plenty of bone. The master will see and will hear. The bones will crack——”
“If only I can secure a succession of pictures such as the old man describes I shall be lucky. And Denning must put in his shot when I have finished.”
They went off in good spirits, promising Joan a few lines by post from headquarters, to tell her of the results.
“You won’t come back to camp?”
“No, thanks. We have the car on the road, with our chauffeur, a couple of miles away from the kill, and we’ll run straight back,” said Carter.
“What about the tiger?” asked Denning.
“The village headman and the constable will see that it is safe. There will be someone in the village who can skin it. Warn the constable that he is to look after the whiskers. They’re valued as charms and will be cut off for a certainty if you give the people a chance.”
“I shall have the head set up by a good man in London,” said Denning.
Joan and her brother watched them as they started briskly down the forest path, the Kuruva leading, with the tiffin-basket on his head and his long staff swinging with each step.
They arrived at the spot in an hour and a half. Govind was dismissed with a rupee. The watcher who had been guarding camera and rifle reported that all was quiet and the tiger had not yet given any sign of its presence.
Denning and Carter climbed into the tree and settled themselves down as comfortably as they could. It was a long wait. Smoking was out of the question. They thought it best not to speak except by a whispered word when it was necessary. Their seats inside the shelter were none too easy.
Carter’s attention was divided between the spot where the kill lay and his filming apparatus. A tiger to right or left would not serve him. The beast must come well into the focus of the camera and either stand or crouch over the carcass.
A slight breeze brushed the foliage. Carter, always alert to the conditions suitable for his schemes, lifted himself up and peered through the leaves.
“It’s all right. The men who put up the machan made no mistake over the scent. What wind there is comes from the kill to us.”
Denning did not reply. They relapsed once more into silence. It was a strange silence full of small insignificant sounds. If Govind had been there he could have interpreted every one of the noises of the night, the rasping croak of the lizard, the scratchings of beetles among the dead vegetation, the leathery flapping of the bats’ wings as they pursued the moths.
In the trees the night birds scuffled along the branches, spreading their wings to balance themselves in their efforts to find the insatiable caterpillar that blindly devoured shoot and green leaf by night as well as by day. Overhead the owls passed in noiseless flight, as they chased the bat and the furtive jungle rat.
Carter glanced at the luminous face of his wrist watch. It was past midnight. He stretched himself cautiously and looked up at his companion, whose seat had been built a couple of feet higher than that of the photographer.
“I hope the brute is not giving us a miss,” he whispered.
“That old jungle man seemed confident that it would return. He promised us a good sight of it. He ought to know what we may expect if anyone does. We must be patient, I suppose. If only we could smoke!”
“We won’t risk it,” said Carter. “I don’t want to do anything that will spoil the show. I have a splendid setting. It only wants the leading figure to make it perfect.”
Once more they dropped into silence. The scream of a bird or beast in the distance startled them, a shrill piercing sound as of some creature in the throes of death. Then silence again except for the continuous rustlings of the unseen jungle world that walked abroad in the moonlight.
It must have been about one o’clock when Carter heard a new sound of movement in the jungle. It seemed to come from the other side of the kill. It was a slight noise, as of something treading cautiously and creeping along the game track.
He lifted a finger but dared not speak. Denning had not caught the sound, but he comprehended. Suddenly an animal snorted. Carter distinguished a deep breathing, a sniffing as a dog might sniff at its plate of food to pick out the tit-bits.
The dead buffalo was lying in deep shadow where the tiger had left it. Carter’s muscles grew tense and the fingers of his left hand closed firmly on the bulb communicating with the electric light. The other hand gripped the handle of the little machine that was to produce the film.
Then he heard distinctly the cracking of bones and tearing of meat. The moment had arrived to operate. He pressed the bulb. A flood of brilliant light was thrown on the kill.
The sight that met his eyes thrilled him. A magnificent tiger was crouching over the carcass intent on tearing at the inner meat beneath the ribs.
The light seemed to dazzle it and in its surprise it made no attempt to escape. It rose slowly and turned its head, staring full in Carter’s direction, as if its yellow eyes could pierce the screen of leaves behind which he was hidden. With a deep growl it sprang back into the cover of the jungle.
“Why didn’t you shoot, man?” asked Carter, almost querulous in his excitement. “You have lost one of the best shots that ever came your way.”
“I couldn’t get a clear view,” replied Denning completely puzzled.
“It was a first-rate view. You must have seen the brute. As far as I could judge it was of a most unusual size.” Denning did not reply. Carter continued. “I got a splendid picture anyway, and when I’ve developed it you will be ready to tear your hair over what you have missed.”
“Sorry,” said Denning.
“Your show, not mine. Let’s have some supper. The tiger won’t come again. The light scared it stiff, paralysed it and made it stand for its picture as if it had been trained for studio work.”
They descended from their perch and were glad to stretch their limbs. It surprised them to find how cold and hungry they were in spite of Joan’s excellent fare. The night air had become chilly.
“There’s nothing else to wait for,” remarked Carter, when they had done full justice to their supper. “I’m sorry you have been disappointed. I can’t understand how you missed the beast. You saw it right enough, didn’t you?”
Denning did not reply. He was busy replacing the thermos flasks and closing the basket.
“I never had such a good subject,” continued Carter, who was at last able to fight up the cigarette he had been longing for. “There was no haste about it, nothing to rattle one. You weren’t asleep were you?”
“I’m not so sure that I wasn’t,” was the astonishing answer.
“You must have seen the tiger!”
Denning was silent, and the Major left him alone, concluding that his companion had dropped off and was unwilling to admit it.
Joan Llewellyn was twenty-two when her mother died. By the death of Mrs. Llewellyn she was not only deprived of a dearly loved companion but she lost every object in life that seemed worth living for. The sudden cessation of all home duties created a blank. She had only herself to think about and was plunged into a selfish existence that was contrary to every instinct. She was restless and unhappy.
A few hundred pounds a year patrimony obviated the necessity of earning her living. She was independent and her own mistress. She would have been happier if she had been obliged to take up work of some sort.
While she was looking round for rooms in a rather desultory fashion, dreading the lonely life that was threatening her, she received a letter from her brother Evan, who was in the South Indian police force, suggesting that she should pay him a visit before she anchored herself down in a new home in England. He promised that she would find the life pleasant enough. From November to June the climate was delightful. The rest of the year, when the south-west monsoon was deluging town and hills alike, and the sun was blanketed in mist, it was damp and warm, although a breeze blew in from the sea on most days. If she found it unpleasant at that time of the year she could go back to Europe. Switzerland was within easy reach. England, a little farther off, was quite possible if she chose to cross the Channel.
Llewellyn had a good bungalow at headquarters and could take her with him when he went into camp in the hills. She would enjoy this part of the life. The scenery of the Western Ghauts was magnificent. Europe had nothing like it to offer. He expressed himself as delighted at the prospect of seeing her again. He hoped that she would stay as long as she could.
It sounded alluring. She wrote at once accepting the invitation. She gave up looking at flats in the West End of London, packed her household goods to be stored till her return, replenished her wardrobe and started for the East.
The voyage out was a new experience. It charmed her. It seemed to be a round of gaieties, with a set of people who for the time being did not change. They were as intent as herself on amusing themselves. By the time she came to the end of the journey she had got rid of her melancholy: life no longer seemed purposeless, and she arrived full of energy and with an enormous capacity for enjoyment.
Evan himself was infected with her joyous vitality.
She made friends with his friends and gathered to herself as many more. They were the young people he had been too busy and perhaps too shy to cultivate. Associated with his sister, he found himself on a more intimate footing with his neighbours. He was well satisfied with the new conditions of his life and was not a little surprised to discover that a popular sister was an acquisition to be proud of. If the station life at headquarters had its attractions for Joan, she was finding her camp life still more fascinating. They were under canvas in one of the innumerable forest glades in the hills.
“Evan, are you very busy?” asked Joan, entering her brother’s office tent.
She caught sight of Inspector Maxwell, standing at Evan’s elbow and prepared to retreat.
“Good morning, Mr. Maxwell,” she said. “So sorry to disturb you. I wasn’t aware that you were here.”
The inspector drew himself up in the proud consciousness of knowing that he was as well dressed in the depths of the jungle as if he were at headquarters. He returned her greeting and expressed a hope that she was well. He had been born in India and the ladies of his circle of acquaintance were also country-born. Miss Llewellyn always set his pulse going a little faster than usual. He was not in love with her, although he admired her immensely. He was extremely anxious to create a favourable impression on the only English girl with whom he came in contact. When the little exchange of civilities was ended Maxwell said:
“While Miss Llewellyn is speaking to you, sir, I will see the constables and hear what they have to say.”
“Very well, inspector. Come back again. I have two or three little matters to talk about.”
As Maxwell left the tent Evan looked up at his sister, anxious to conclude the little business, whatever it was, that had brought her. It was not often that she intruded on him in the morning, knowing how fully occupied he was at that hour.
“I have had a letter from Nancy Kingsbury.”
Evan’s attention was caught at once. Nancy was one of his sister’s many friends who attracted him more than a little.
“What does she say? Wants us to come down for a dance? Sorry,” and he looked it, “can’t do it, my dear, too busy.”
“No, it’s the other way round. She would like to come up and see us, put in two or three days with me in camp if you don’t mind. It will be quite a new experience for her. Her father doesn’t go out into the district. She says she has just seen Captain Denning and his description of the hills has made her crazy, just crazy to come.”
“But can we put her up?” asked Llewellyn. “I have no extra tent, as you know. I couldn’t manage to put up Carter and Denning on that account.”
“She will share my tent if you can raise a camp cot.”
“Ganjee can manage that. Tell him to send one of the tent lascars to the bungalow with a message to the butler. Remind him about the bedding as well, and tell Miss Kingsbury we shall be delighted if she will stay a week with us.”
“I hope you won’t mind if she takes us at our word. You are sure that a visitor will not be in your way? She and I will be out for our pleasure, but you are up here on business,” said Joan.
“You girls won’t interfere with my work. You will have to amuse yourselves in your own way. You mustn’t expect me to join in all your expeditions and picnics. You have your pony. Nancy can have mine on most days. It will be good for it to have a little more exercise. I don’t know what you will find to amuse you, with no tennis, golf or dancing.”
“Nancy wants to sketch.”
“Plenty of subjects about here.”
He took up one of the envelopes marked “On Service”—most of his correspondence bore the mystic letters O.S.—and drew out the enclosure. It was a sign to Joan that she had better go. He must get on with the office business.
“One minute, Evan, I have received another letter. It is from Captain Denning.”
Her brother gave her a keen glance as he asked:
“Does he want to escort Nancy up here?” Before Joan could reply he continued: “We can’t possibly put him up. It would mean an extra tent. Mine is too small for two.”
“No, he isn’t thinking of paying us a visit,” interrupted Joan hastily.
“Then what is he writing about?”
“He sends me a print of the photograph Major Carter took.”
“Hope it was a good one,” he remarked indifferently, his attention concentrating on his letter.
“It is an extraordinary picture,” said Joan, looking into it before handing it to Llewellyn. “Examine it yourself and see what you can make of it. It’s unaccountable.”
“Why—where’s the tiger?” he exclaimed. “Carter has taken the kill and omitted the tiger.”
“Apparently he has missed it.”
Llewellyn continued to gaze at the print. There was the dead buffalo lying on the rough herbage in the jungle just as the tiger had left it. Every detail had come out distinctly. Neither light nor camera had failed, but it was a picture of still life.
“Carter has certainly missed it, but I don’t see how it could have happened,” said Evan at last. “What has Denning to say to it?”
She did not hand him the letter as well as the photograph, as he seemed to expect. She preferred to read out that part of it which concerned the print.
“Captain Denning writes, ‘Carter is simply astounded. He can’t understand it. He swears that he not only heard the beast but he saw it. It stood out plainly in the light. It crouched over the kill, licking and biting at the flesh before tearing it to pieces. When he flashed on the light it rose to its feet. It was startled but did not seem frightened. He said it stood over the kill for a few moments and stared at the light. Then it snarled and suddenly sprang back into the jungle.’”
“Did Denning see it? If so he ought to have bagged it.”
“I don’t think he could have seen it. In fact he distinctly says that he did not.” She continued to read from his letter. “‘Unfortunately I didn’t catch sight of it at all. I wasn’t so well placed as he was. Carter declared at the time that I was asleep. I assured him I was not. My position in the machan prevented all possibility of dozing to say nothing of sleeping. It was most uncomfortable, the worst five hours I have spent for some time past.’”
Joan and her brother again examined the print.
“I wonder what the rest of the film shows. This is only part of the reel,” he remarked.
“Captain Denning says that there is no sign of the tiger throughout from the beginning to the end. The beast was not there,” replied Joan.
“Carter couldn’t have imagined it with that strong light turned on,” protested Llewellyn.
“Nor dreamt it,” she added. “Major Carter wasn’t asleep, whatever Captain Denning was about.”
“Carter’s imagination must have played a trick on him,” said Evan.
Joan was not convinced. She could not believe that two men with alert perceptive senses could be deceived as Evan seemed inclined to hint.
“Major Carter not only saw the tiger but heard the animal as well, tearing at the flesh and bones,” she said, glancing at the letter again.
“Does Denning suggest any solution of the mystery?”
“He only asks, ‘Do your jungle men dabble in magic by any chance?’”
Llewellyn made no comment. He remained silent, his thoughts turned suddenly into another channel by the question.
“Let me see,” he said presently. “We sent Govind down with them to carry the basket of food.”
“They paid him and dismissed him on arrival at the kill. Rama told me so. He heard it from the Kuruva himself. Captain Denning says that they had to wait till the small hours of the morning for the tiger. Govind left them at once before they took up their positions in the machan. Evan,” her eyes rested on her brother in startled enquiry, “you don’t think—I know the old man pretends to make magic for the country people -you don’t think that he would dare to play tricks on any Englishmen?”
“He wouldn’t attempt it, because he would know that it would be useless. He has never tried anything of the kind on me. He may do some conjuring tricks for the villagers—a great deal is possible merely by the art of suggestion—but I don’t think it is possible he could make any impression on two stolid British sportsmen like Denning and Carter. If you consider it seriously it is ridiculous.”
Joan was not satisfied to dismiss the subject lightly.
“Rama says that the Kuruvas are all born with a knowledge of jungle magic. They do queer things, and it isn’t safe to disregard them and laugh.”
Llewellyn had no superstition. He could not deny that the man possessed a strange influence over the natives of the district, whether they were hillmen or belonged to the low country. But he would not admit for a moment that the influence could be extended to an educated European. He turned once more to the office affairs.
“You must run away, old girl. Tell Nancy that we shall be delighted to see her. When is she coming?”
“As soon as she hears that we can put her up.”
Joan retired to write her letters. The inspector entered the office tent as she left it. He found his superior officer deep in thought. The sight of Maxwell recalled his scattered senses. He glanced through the letter that he had taken from its envelope.
“Here’s a notice from the Mysore Police that they have tracked a gang of smugglers into our district. They want us to take up the case. The smugglers are gipsies. The authorities have reason to believe that the gang will pass through our forests and then push on to the west coast.”
“Sandalwood, sir?”
“A large consignment. Some of it they think is stolen from the government stores. All of it is contraband.”
“I don’t believe that they will touch our district,” said Maxwell. “They will go through Coorg and get to the coast farther north.”
“Rougher travelling and not so direct,” objected Llewellyn. “They probably want to reach the French settlement, Mahe, and their nearest and best way would be by taking one of the lesser known jungle tracks used by the hillmen only in our district.”
Maxwell made no comment. He knew his chief was correct. Llewellyn continued:
“The last lot we were asked to hold up slipped through our fingers and reached Mahe. I don’t want it to happen again. We put some constables on that job thinking that it would be fairly easy, but the gipsies managed to give us the slip. I might ask Inspector de Silva to take up the case.”
“I could take it up if you liked, sir,” said Maxwell. “We could not hope to secure the whole gang, but we might get hold of the leaders. Most of the drivers and porters will be women. They are very sly and cunning. The minute they think that the police are on their tracks, they hide their loads and pasture their bullocks on the plateau or in the glades, as innocent as you please.”
“I was half inclined to go myself, but you can do it as well as I can.”
Evan had suddenly remembered that a visitor was expected. He had no intention of devoting himself to the entertainment of Nancy, but at the back of his mind was the thought that it was possible for them to arrange their picnics and excursions in the direction he might be going. If business and pleasure could be combined why should it not be done?
“Yes, on the whole I think you had better go, inspector. Take three or four constables with you and secure the leaders of the gang. Here’s another matter to which these Mysore people call our attention. There has been a highway robbery between the towns of Mysore and Bangalore. A chetty has had his moneybags taken from him. He has been roughly handled into the bargain. What with fright and ill usage the man is in a bad way and likely to die. It is thought that the dacoit may make for the west coast and pass through our district. Or he may try to get down to Madras or Tuticorin or Pondicherry. From any one of these ports he could sail by a native boat for Burmah or Ceylon. We must do our best to intercept him if he passes our way.”
“They seem to think that all their bad characters are coming our way,” remarked Maxwell, who had been slightly ruffled by Llewellyn’s allusion to the failure to catch the former gang of smugglers.
He need not have taken it to heart. The policing of the Western Ghauts was a big job compared with town work. The mountains had their intricate system of unsurveyed paths through thousands of acres of thick jungle. They were nothing better than game tracks made in the remote past by wild animals. They were almost as familiar to the hillmen as to the wild beasts themselves. Many of them were partially grown over, and only a few went down to the low country. They led from feeding grounds to drinking pools, or from lairs, where the animals sheltered from the sun and rain, to their remote playgrounds.
The jungle tribes had a more intimate knowledge of these forest paths than the police, although many of the constables had been born within sight of the magnificent peaks and droogs of the range. A criminal could not be taken in the forest. The facilities for hiding were too great. He might be tracked down to some village where he could get food. The people, whether of the hills or the low-country, were always more ready to help the fugitive, no matter what crime he might have been guilty of, than the police.
The mountain paths are without rest-houses. Although the traveller can carry his bundle of cold cooked rice or millet and his blanket, he cannot exist long without a renewal of his supplies, and these are only to be bought in the villages.
Then the distances are enormous, and the travelling slow, as it can only be done on foot. The Western Ghauts are not to be crossed in a day, and in some places not in a week. The paths turn and twist, following the ways which were easiest for those ancient four-footed creatures that traced the first lines.
Llewellyn knew the difficulties he had to face when he was called upon to arrest a fugitive from justice. He was also aware of the deep-seated prejudice common to all Indians against the police.
“Can we trust our men?” asked Llewellyn. “The gipsy leader will do his best to corrupt them with bribes. If bribes fail he will have recourse to spells and curses. The Lumbadees (gipsies) have a reputation for the practice of magic as great as that of the Kuruvas.”
“The constables will be all right with me at their head. There will be no chance of bribery or of intimidation. I shall see to that,” responded Maxwell, confidently.
“And with regard to this dacoit?”
“He may be anywhere, possibly taking refuge in some cave high up in the mountains,” suggested Maxwell.
“Or he may be in the old ruin, the Rajah’s fort.”
“We had better have the place watched, sir.”
“He couldn’t stay there long. He would be starved out,” said Llewellyn.
“Unless someone assisted him.”
Llewellyn gave him a sharp glance.
“Who is likely to lend a helping hand to a stranger?”
Maxwell cleared his throat as though he would speak and then seemed to think better of the impulse.
“Can you suggest——” began Llewellyn. “Have you any suspicion?”
“Well, sir, since you ask me, the only man who might help is the old Kuruva. We all know that he belongs to a tribe that has no reputation for honesty.”
“We have no reason for believing that Govind abuses our kindness to him in that way. I am aware that you don’t like him for some reason or other.”
“I distrust him,” admitted Maxwell, after a slight pause.
“He has never given us reason to distrust him,” repeated Llewellyn.
He had his own reasons for allowing the old man to have the privilege of coming into the camp. The assistant superintendent knew in what estimation and awe he was held by the constables. He was their mascot.
“I don’t like the way he has of turning up where you least expect him,” said Maxwell. “He seems to me to be always spying about the place. He is no more to be trusted than a gipsy.”
“His occupation takes him up and down the hills. He sells wild honey, beeswax, herbs and ginger root to the people.”
“And charms against wild beasts and accidents, anything to get money out of the villagers,” said Maxwell, whose tongue once loosened was not inclined to stop.
Llewellyn laughed as he added: “And works spells of all kinds which don’t affect us.”
“Pretends to do so,” corrected Maxwell.
“You think it is all pretence. The constables don’t.”
“He is an old humbug and impostor! He doesn’t deceive me with his impudent tricks,” said the inspector hotly.
Llewellyn grew grave once more. He took up his pen to begin the letters that should be ready for the out-going post. The peon left the camp early in the afternoon.
“We mustn’t forget that, according to the constables, he is a working magician as well as a hawker of herbs and wild honey.”
“If it was only that——” began Maxwell.
“If it is anything else, such as aiding and abetting a criminal to escape, I shall certainly run him in, magic or no magic.”
Breakfast was laid in the deep shade of an old forest tree. Joan and Nancy had been for a stroll in the jungle. They were in high spirits and delighted to be together again.
Nancy had only seen Evan for a few minutes on the previous evening. She arrived at sunset. He was too late for dinner and almost too tired to talk when the meal was over. A long expedition, a ghastly murder and a criminal maddened with drugs and jealousy, had occupied his entire attention for the whole day. There had been danger in the arrest, and one of his men had been wounded.
However, matters were more settled this morning. The injured constable was reported to be better and likely to live. He had been carried down to the police hospital, and the murderer had gone fairly quietly to the cells where he was locked up to await his trial.
“Had a good night, Miss Kingsbury?” Llewellyn asked.
“Nancy, please Evan, now that we are picnicking in the jungle,” said Joan.
“May I?” he asked.
“Why not?” was the reply. “I had a splendid night, thanks. This is something like picnicking. I hope the rain will hold off.”
“Of course it will. It’s the dry season, at least as dry as it ever is in the hills. We may have a thunderstorm now and then but no continuous rain till June.”
“Clouds were lying on a big peak above us when we first went out,” said Nancy.
“They clear away as a rule as soon as the sun touches them.”
“I saw them as we came back from our walk—already floating up into the blue sky, so soft and white. They looked as if they had just come home from the wash.”
“Did you find the journey up here very fatiguing?”
“It was nothing. Captain Denning was kind enough to give me a lift. He was driving up to see a planter friend somewhere on the hills. We found Joan’s pony and a couple of coolies to carry my luggage. He saw me off by the jungle path leading to the camp.”
“If you had let me know that you wanted to be driven——” began Llewellyn.
“Oh, I couldn’t have troubled you! Daddy was using our car, and Captain Denning was coming up the Ghaut so it all fitted in.”
“Did he tell you about Major Carter’s attempt to film a tiger over a kill?” asked Joan.
“Yes, we had a great laugh over it. The fact was they both fell asleep and they won’t admit it. I believe there’s a good deal of chaff in the mess about it,” said Nancy.
“If they really went to sleep it’s a wonder that they didn’t fall out of the machan,” remarked Joan.
“Do you know if the tiger returned to the kill?” asked Nancy.
“I was told that it never came near the place again,” replied Joan. “Rama says that if the carcass is left by the tiger in a particular position—lying east and west I think he said—the animal never returns to it. The jackals do the scavenging and come in for a fine feast.”
“Then the photograph spoke true?”
“So the villagers say.”
Llewellyn rose to go to the office. He would willingly have spent another half hour in such pleasant company, but the little gathering round the office tent was a sign that business was awaiting him.
“What are you going to do to-day, Joan?” he asked.
“Nancy is very anxious to see the old fort and the pool of the wailing stones.”
“Rather a long climb.”
“It’s through forest most of the way, and we shall be in shade.”
“You had better ride up. You can have both the ponies.”
“Certain that you don’t want yours?”
With assurances that he would not be using his, he left them.
“We shall take lunch with us and come back in the afternoon,” Joan called after him.
There were various matters to attend to in the office. The constables who had been watching the fort had found traces of its occupation by some human being who must be hiding in the ruins. The man was still there, they thought. They had searched for him but so far had not had any success.
“There are no end of passages and cells in the fortifications,” said Maxwell. “The best way would be to starve him out, sir. The place has only one entrance and our men are watching it.”
“Have they seen Govind up in that direction?” asked Llewellyn, mindful for the inspector’s suspicions.
“No, sir,” Maxwell replied promptly. “I met the old man going down the Ghaut road yesterday as I was riding up on my motor-cycle.”
“What was he doing?”
“I stopped and asked him the question. He said he was on his way to one of the coast towns. He was leading a large black monkey which he had caught and tamed. He was offering it for sale on the way.”
“Do you happen to know where he caught it?” asked Llewellyn.
“The constables say that he took it some three months ago, somewhere near the Rajah’s fort. It was one of a troop living in the creepers on the walls. He was asking fifteen rupees for it. I daresay he would have taken ten but I didn’t want a pet of that kind. Mischievous brutes, monkeys.”
“Did you look at it closely?”
“I ran my eye over it.”
“What time was it when you met Govind?”
“About three o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Can you describe it?”
“To tell you the truth, sir, my attention was more upon the old man than the animal. He looked at me in a strange manner that I didn’t like. His eyes are like snake’s eyes, full of cunning. The monkey, I noticed, seemed fond of him. It clung to him and was scared to death at the sight of me and my bicycle.”
“You are sure that it was a monkey?”
The inspector raised his eyebrows at the strange question.
“Why, yes, sir. It could not have been anything else,” he replied, as though his dignity was hurt at having to answer what seemed a foolish question.
Llewellyn had no wish to offend. He changed the subject.
“Any news of the smugglers?”
“They are being traced to one of the paths leading down through the jungle. The gang is large. They raise such a cloud of dust on the downs that it is impossible for them to hide their tracks. They are travelling slowly and will probably pass the night at the hill village of Vittikul. With your permission, sir, I will take four or five constables and catch them at dawn to-morrow before they leave the village.”
“If they are allowed by the headman to feed and water their bullocks at his village he will find himself in trouble,” remarked Llewellyn, as he closed down the roll-top of his table.
He went towards his sister’s tent. She was ready to start and was waiting for Nancy.
“I’m coming with you,” he said.
“It isn’t necessary,” she protested. “You mustn’t be troubled with us and our gaddings about. We shall have the syces, and Rama and I know the way: I’ve been there before.”
“I am going to the fort on business.”
“Then you will want your pony.”
“I shall walk. It’s nothing of a walk for me.”
“Will you lunch with us?”
“I shall be glad to do so. Give me a quarter of an hour and we can start together.”
“Splendid!” cried Joan, delighted to have her brother with her. That there was any other reason for his wishing to be with them did not cross her mind.
Llewellyn hurried back to his tent to prepare for his climb up the mountain to the verge of the plateau. The little crowd round the office had dispersed. Maxwell had also gone.
From behind the tent came Govind. He approached and salaamed. Llewellyn addressed him in his own language.
“Hallo, old father of the forest! I thought you were at the coast. The inspector told me he had met you going down the Ghaut road with a monkey. Did you sell it?”
“A planter of cardamoms gave me ten rupees for it, your honour.”
“What did he want it for?”
“To amuse his children. It was worth more than ten rupees, but what is a poor man to do? He was a Brahmin and there is merit in dealing with one of the twice-born. I had much trouble to make the monkey tame.”
“Where did you keep it?”
“In a cave in the forest where this poor old jungle man sometimes sleeps.”
While he talked the Kuruva untied a corner of his loin-cloth and exhibited the rupees.
“What are you going to do with all that money?”
“I have a little grand-daughter who must soon be married. It will cost twenty rupees.”
“Then you did not get as far as the coast.”
“It was not necessary, your honour.”
Llewellyn wondered what business it was that had brought the old man back to the camp. The few words Maxwell had dropped lingered in his mind. Had Govind returned with the intention of assisting the fugitive said to be hiding in the fort? With his knowledge of the hill paths it would be easy for him to outwit the police. Llewellyn thought it would be as well to give him a warning. It might deter him from making any attempt of the kind.
“I am going up to the fort this morning,” he announced. The old man shuffled his feet slightly. “I have reason to believe,” he continued, “that a dacoit, wanted by the Mysore police for robbery with violence, is hiding there.”
The deep-set eyes of the Kuruva glinted. They indicated knowledge and cunning. The police master might believe that he was giving him news. Govind knew more of what was going on than anyone in the camp could tell him.
“To-day I take two constables—I have two keeping guard at the entrance—and we shall catch the man we want. He is in the fort.”
He paused and looked at Govind.
“Perhaps your honour’s constables have seen him?”
“There are monkeys on the ruins. Someone inside the building throws stones at them.”
Govind remained silent. Llewellyn turned on him suddenly with a question.
“Have you been taking food to the criminal?” he demanded, eyeing him keenly.
“No, sir,” came the quick denial, too quickly to be convincing. “This poor old man never goes against the police, as your honour knows.”
“He won’t need any more food. I shall catch him to-day.”
“May this humble servant speak one little word?” asked Govind, lowering his voice and coming a step or two nearer to the assistant superintendent.
“Say on, old man, and tell true word only.”
“Two days ago the man your honour wants was hiding up there. To-day he is gone.”
“Gone!” cried Llewellyn, with the ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth. The Kuruva saw it and moved uneasily again. Reproach, abuse, disbelief, can be borne, but the smile of scorn cuts like a knife. “He is still there and you know it,” concluded the police officer.
It was not for Govind to contradict.
“The big police master says it, and this worm must not tell different.”
“If he is not there where is he?” demanded Llewellyn.
“Your honour will have news of him in one or two days.”
“Yes, by this evening, when he will be a prisoner in my hands.”
“There will be monkeys on the walls,” said Govind; “the stones in the torrent will cry; the eagles will scream above and the jungle birds will call in the trees, but the thief will not be there.”
A blind! thought Llewellyn. The old man was trying to put him off. Govind was dismissed. Ten minutes later Llewellyn joined his sister and her friend, and they started on their expedition, two of them bent on nothing but pleasure, the rest of the party, police officer and constables, on business.
Llewellyn was keen on his work, but it was not a pursuit that carried any pleasure with it. Running criminals to earth and handing them over to justice occasionally went against the grain. Perhaps it was a satisfaction to relieve the district, the taluk, to use the technical term, of men who were thoroughly evil, but many passed through his hands who were not bad. They were the victims of circumstances and opportunity.
Some of them, old, decrepit men who were no longer able to do a day’s work, gave themselves up as confessed perpetrators of crimes which at their age were beyond their powers. They had no objection to serving sentences in prison as long as their sons and grandsons, the real criminals, went free.
A beneficent government saw to their well-being and they were happy in the performance of the allotted daily tasks which were never too great for their strength. The younger members of the family were thus left free to provide food for their relatives and do pooja at the appointed time to their gods.
Llewellyn walked by Nancy’s side, his hand on her saddle to help himself up the track. Joan led the way. Rama and the constables and syces, one of them bearing the lunch-basket, followed.
The path ran by the side of a torrent which precipitated itself over a bed of rocks down the gorge. In places the track was only ten or twelve feet above the stream. In other places it diverged, running round the foot of magnificent crags that rose perpendicularly from the forest.
On the top of one of the highest and most inaccessible of these cliffs stood the Rajah’s fort. The building was in ruins, but, dilapidated and neglected as it was, it was still impregnable from the gorge, unless heavy guns of modern make were brought to bear upon it. The only way of entry was through an old gateway that faced the plateau behind it.
Round the foot of the rampart of rock on which it was erected ran the river, small in its inception as it left the undulating downs beyond the Ghauts. As soon as the silent meandering stream of the plateau reached the mountains its character changed. It became violent and noisy, leaping from rock to rock and from shelf to pool. For thousands of years it had hurled itself down, till it had cleft the rock below the fort and hollowed out for itself a deep walled pool, where it seemed to rest and gather fresh strength for its tortuous boulder-obstructed passage towards the low country. Below the fort the perpendicular sides of the pool curved inwards. It was impossible for any creature to climb those walls from the water in the basin. There had been accidents, wild animals washed over the fall above and imprisoned just as long as their strength could keep them afloat. No one could save them from their fate, death from drowning, when they could swim no longer. Human beings had also suffered.
The hillmen were familiar with the spot and avoided it. They believed that the pool was spirit-haunted and that the souls of the drowned man and beasts still lingered about the place bewailing their fate. No shradda ceremonies were performed over the human beings when they died. How could they rest in peace?
The party left the gorge and the jungle before they reached the pool. A winding path took them up grassy slopes on to the plateau, where a fresh breeze met them, refreshing and acceptable after the closeness of the forest.
The entrance to the fort was by a succession of gates, three in number, that barred a serpentine passage into the keep. The passage ran between massive walls twenty feet high.
The gates moved on pivots set at the top and bottom of the stone gateposts. Two hundred years ago they had been burst open by assault; the occupants of the building had been annihilated by the sword and the fort deserted. The gates had been left partially open. It had been nobody’s business to close them. The jungle had grown up about them sufficiently to render them immovable, and they remained permanently open.
The keep was a rectangular space enclosed in walls of enormous width. Both walls and bastions were honeycombed with casemates, dark windowless rooms lighted only from the doorways which opened on to passages or the keep. Here the men-at-arms had lived.
Beneath the rooms were dungeons and masonry cells of the oubliette character. Prisoners had been lowered through trapdoors in the floors of the rooms. The place suggested cruelty and callous indifference to human life.
A legend was attached to the erection of the fort. When labourers were required, the conquering Rajah sent his fierce followers into the villages of the plateau and compelled the people to come and carry the building material needed by the masons. It was forced labour, and they were paid in food. Money was promised but it was not to be given until the work was finished.
The Rajah was a free-booter. He and his followers lived by raiding the towns of the Mysore plateau and by robbing merchant-travellers on their way to and from Bombay and the west coast ports. He had no money in his coffers wherewith to pay the great concourse of people he had gathered together. He could only just manage to supply them with food.
They were patient hard-working souls, obedient and unsuspicious. When the fort was finished there was nothing more for them to do. They asked permission to return to their homes, that they might sow their fields that had been too long neglected. It was granted. Then they demanded the payment of their wages. It was not possible to delay farther. They were told that they would receive what was their due.
Full of joy at the prospect of going back, they assembled according to orders on the top of the bastion overlooking the gorge. Never doubting the good faith of their employers, they filed up the rough steps with their wives and children.
As they emerged into the open on the top of the bastion they were seized by a company of men-at-arms and hurled into the pool from which there was no escape.
The pool was a kind of backwater. It had a lip over which the stream escaped as water will escape in a thin silver sheet from a basin that is receiving more than it can hold. Fallen leaves might be carried over but large objects were held back by the rim which curved inwards instead of outwards like that of a domestic basin.
Tradition said that the bodies floated on the surface of the pool for days. The violent swirl of the waters would not allow them to sink and there was not sufficient flood coming down the waterfall to lift them over the lip of the pool and send them along on the torrent.
In pity the river gods turned them into stones. They could still be seen lying in the depths of the water. Their shrieks and wailings could be heard sometimes mingling with the roar of the waterfall and rapids.
Joan and Nancy slipped out of their saddles at the first gate. The syces took charge of the ponies. Joan gave directions that the animals were to have their nosebags.
“You can find your way to the top of the bastion,” said Evan. “I shall be busy with my men for at least an hour. You can tell Nancy the story of the pool.”
“Join us there when you have finished,” replied Joan. “We will have lunch in the shade of the old wall.”
“What are you going to do with your men—Evan?” asked Nancy, with the suspicion of a pause before she pronounced his name. It sent the blood tingling through his veins.
“We have to make a thorough search of the place for someone I have reason to believe is hiding here.”
“How thrilling! Can’t we help?” asked Nancy.
Joan laughed at the look of sudden consternation that appeared on her brother’s face at Nancy’s offer. She answered for him.
“We can help by going to the top of the bastion—and staying there out of the way.”
“Yes, yes!” said Evan hastily. “Give me an hour. After lunch I will take you round the fort myself and show you the dungeons and the dark dens which the Rajah made as barracks for his soldiers.”
“Good-bye for the present, then,” said Nancy. “If we meet your man we will tell him that a warm welcome awaits him in the keep.”
The possible presence of an individual who was wanted by the police added to the excitement of the hour. Joan was not exactly disturbed; at the same time she would rather have paid a visit to the old ruin without the presence of a criminal. Her anxiety now was to follow her brother’s directions and not allow herself or her friend to be in the way when his attention was fully occupied by an incident in no way connected with pleasure.
With Rama’s help she chose a suitable spot, in the shade of a creeper-covered wall that was once part of a tower, where the lunch could be spread. Then she took Nancy to the end of the bastion and told her to look over into the depth below. There was nothing but a low coping at the edge of the wall. Down the gorge rushed the torrent precipitating itself into the pool at the foot of the bastion. The water, flecked with foam, seethed as if it was boiling. A long barrier of rock held it up, allowing it to brim over in a silvery sheet. Lower down the ravine the sides of the channel contracted and again the stream became a noisy rapid.
Nancy had listened spell-bound to the legend. She was impressed. There on that very spot the victims of the Rajah’s greed and rapacity had been hurled over the edge.
She knelt down and peered into the pool. Some of the stronger of the Rajah’s victims must have clung to the slippery rock and vainly tried to escape. They had pleaded with their inhuman murderers for mercy. The children torn from their mothers, arms had been tossed like pebbles into the basin—Nancy’s vivid imagination pictured it all, and she shuddered.
She was very silent as she returned to the spot where the lunch was spread. It was a relief to Joan when her brother appeared, picking his way over the broken masonry.
“Come and sit down, Evan,” cried Joan, with an unconscious note of gladness in her voice. “You look fagged out. Have you had any luck?”
“Nothing to talk about. I am afraid the villain has escaped. We found traces of him however. He must have been in the fort quite recently. We came across the ashes of a fire where he had cooked his food in the early morning. The ashes were actually warm. My men are still looking for him.”
“I am glad you didn’t meet him,” said Nancy softly.
“But why?” he asked in surprise.
“I was so afraid you would get hurt.”
“What is he like?” asked Joan, who thought Nancy’s remark was rather foolish. Evan did not see it in the same light.
“He is marked with smallpox and has a large scar on his right wrist.”
Joan distributed the contents of the lunch-basket, to which she and her brother did full justice. Nancy remained silent. She left her companions to carry on the conversation.
“Do you think that the man is still hiding in the fort?” asked Joan, who was not altogether easy in her mind as to the possibility of a desperate criminal being so near. At any moment he might burst out of his hiding place and attack them. They were all three unarmed. She had been relieved that Nancy had remained quietly on the bastion and had shown no disposition to explore. The pool and its legend had put everything else out of her thoughts.
“After seeing the ashes of the fire made so recently, I don’t know what to think,” said Llewellyn. “I am afraid he has escaped, slipped past us when our attention was diverted. These Indians can run on all-fours like monkeys. In the dusk a man may easily be mistaken for a big wanderoo.”
He pulled out his cigarette case and offered it to Nancy.
“Have one,” he said persuasively. She shook her head. “What’s the matter, Nancy? You’re very silent.”
Joan was giving directions to Rama about the tiffin-basket. It was closed and ready for despatch.
“I was thinking about the dreadful fate of those unfortunate people who were drowned by order of the Rajah.” Her serious eyes rested on his. Had they tears in them? “Evan! I have heard the stones wailing since we have been sitting here.”
“Oh, come now——!”
“Yes, I have and I saw the dead bodies when I looked over the edge of the bastion.”
He was not a believer in the supernatural, although occasionally he found himself in contact with events he could not altogether explain. Ghost stories carried no weight with him.
“Boulders you mean,” was his reply.
“You don’t believe what I am telling you!” she exclaimed. “Come and see for yourself.”
She led the way to the place from which she had watched the pool before lunch. She took his hand and pulled him down beside her. He retained her small fingers as they both peered into the pool below them
“Look! look! can’t you see them? There’s one moving, rolling over and over.”
She pointed to a submerged boulder showing darkly through the water. For centuries it had rolled round the bottom of the rocky basin and was shaped by continuous friction into something strangely like the trunk of a corpse.
“And there’s another, a smaller one. It’s a child! it’s moving! Oh, it’s alive!” cried Nancy, her imagination running away with her. “Can’t we save the child? Is there no way down to the pool?”
“I assure you that it is nothing but a stone,” said Llewellyn.
“But it struggles! As soon as it comes to the top of the water it will cry for help.”
“I assure you, Nancy, that it is nothing but a boulder moving in an eddy of the stream,” Llewellyn repeated, vainly trying to quiet her agitation.
“I can’t believe it. You policemen are so accustomed to being in touch with death that you are callous.” She gave him an indignant glance and rose to her feet. “If you won’t do anything, I must see if I can’t find some way to the edge of the pool.”
He was on his feet also in an instant. He put his arm round her.
“Nancy, darling! do listen to me. There is no way of reaching the water. The pool serves as a backwater to the waterfall as well as an overflow. If you lost your footing and fell in we couldn’t possibly pull you out. When once anything touches the water it is caught and drawn in. It never escapes. It is a nightmare of a place, this pool, in spite of its innocent appearance.”
Nancy covered her face with her hands, and to Evan’s distress he saw a tear trickle through her fingers.
Meanwhile Joan, having finished her packing of the basket, was speaking to Rama.
“Are you going to look at the pool, Rama?” she asked.
“No, missie. Not good to go too close. They call and cry if you feel sorry for them. They are best left alone.”
“Very well, you can go,” she said.
“Missie must leave the fort before the sun goes down.”
“Why, Rama? The way is plain though rather rough.”
“After dark the spirits come up from the pool and sit upon the rocks. They cry and the water joins with them.”
He spoke in a low voice, afraid lest he should be heard by those of the spirit world for whom his words were not intended.
Joan proceeded to join her brother, whose arm fell away from its position, and the distance between the two increased again. The waterfall had its fascination for her also. She could hear its many voices which were never the same. Thin threads mingled with stronger notes and combined to form a single roar like the roar of a crowd. After heavy rain the sound was thunderous, drowning the finer tones, the drip and the tinkle of the more leisurely flowing stream. At other times the water seemed to talk. Once or twice she thought she could distinguish a melancholy dirge that awoke tragic thoughts. She reached the couple who were standing, looking down into the pool. Her brother turned to her.
“Nancy is convinced that she sees someone in the water. She wants to find a way down to the edge. I have been telling her that there is no possibility of reaching it.”
“Evan is quite right, Nancy. And to fall in would be fatal. One day a monkey tumbled down the waterfall. It was washed round and round the basin, shrieking all the time like a human being for help. Every attempt it made to catch hold of the rocky sides to climb out was frustrated by the pull of the stream. The current dragged it back. Half the day the poor thing struggled to escape, so the constables say, crying and wailing——” Joan stopped short. “Listen! What was that?”
A faint plaintive cry fell on their ears.
“One of the wailing stones that I saw,” said Nancy in an awed voice.
“Rama says that if you pity the poor victims of the Rajah’s cruelty, they weep and wail. You have been pitying them too much, Nancy,” said Joan, half in fun. She, like her brother, had no belief in ghosts.
“I can’t help it,” replied Nancy. Evan thought he detected a quiver in her voice as if tears were still near.
“It was the cry of a young monkey,” he declared.
“There’s one with its mother in the creeper on the wall.”
He pointed to a troop climbing over the masses of foliage under the shade of which the lunch had been spread. Their keen scent had informed them that crumbs might be lying about. Nancy refused to be satisfied with such a rational explanation.
“The cry came from the pool and not from the creeper,” she asserted in a tone that was a challenge. “I can see the bodies.”
“The boulders,” corrected Llewellyn.
“The dead bodies,” reiterated the impulsive Nancy.
“Come along you two,” said Joan. “Whatever they were centuries ago they are nothing but boulders now. I can’t have you quarrelling like this.”
She led the way towards the steps by which they had mounted to the top of the bastion.
“There!” cried Nancy stopping. “I heard it again, a wail of something in distress. I am certain it was not the cry of a monkey.”
“It’s the sound of the water coming over the fall. I have often thought that I have heard voices in it,” said Joan. “The tragedy of those poor souls happened ages ago —if it ever happened at all. It would never do to believe all the tales one hears of the rivers and rocks, the forests and peaks of these Ghauts.
“They may sound untrue or even impossible, but to me there is a germ of truth in all of them,” said Nancy. “I believe I am keenly sensitive to psychic conditions. I can sense tragedy, the tragedy of the past.”
“I don’t see how that can be. What is past is past and it doesn’t come back again,” objected Joan.
“I have been reading about it lately,” said Nancy. “Certain events created psychic waves. They were filmed, so to speak, and they radiated into space. The actual films may have passed, but in addition to the films, the events gave an atmosphere that was sensitive and that remains. It isn’t everyone who can feel the change that was then produced.”
Llewellyn was silent. Perhaps as a Welshman he should have shown more sympathy with Nancy’s “fantasy.” The Welsh are supposed to have a fine perception of the psychic. His work, however, was concerned with hard facts in which there was no room for anything but blatant reality.
Joan followed her brother’s lead. In spite of an occasional temptation to the contrary, she resolutely put aside anything of an occult nature. If anything occurred that seemed mysterious, she did her best to find a natural reason for the incident. She rejected anything that savoured of the mysterious. To divert Nancy’s thoughts she said:
“We have a long ride home, and on these mountain paths the going is slower downhill than uphill. We will start soon.”
Nancy was in no hurry to leave the fort, in spite of its atmosphere, which she believed to be charged with cruelty and violence.
“We haven’t seen the casemates and dungeons yet,” she objected.
“It will be best to do them another day when Evan has cleared out the undesirables.”
At that moment a cry louder than the wailing of the waterfall sounded on the air.
Nancy clutched Evan’s arm.
“I told you so! It is someone drowning! It is a spirit call!” she cried.
“It’s the fugitive more likely and my men have got him! Excuse me Nancy, I must go——”
He released himself and handed the trembling girl to his sister. In another second he was bounding over broken blocks of masonry and down the steps that led to the keep, running as if for his life.
“Come along, Nancy. Let’s get away as quick as we can,” said Joan.
“But oughtn’t we to wait and see if we can help?”
Joan laughed as she replied, “You don’t look as if you would be much good in capturing a desperate criminal! Cheer up. Evan has his constables. They don’t want us.”
More shouts reached their ears. The cries did not come from the direction of the pool.
“They are chasing the robber,” said Joan, in a serious voice. It was one thing to hear Evan’s account of arrests but quite another to be a spectator. “We must keep well out of the way until they have caught him. He is probably armed. A desperate Indian who is wanted by the police is not a pleasant person to meet.”
“Supposing he comes this way, what are we to do?” asked Nancy clinging closely to Joan’s arm.
“If he knows anything of the geography of the fort we shall not see him up here. There is no exit this way. He will make for the gateways.”
More shouts and cries sounded from the keep. They listened as they stood in the shadow of the wall where they had lunched. The monkeys, disturbed by the unusual sound of human voices, became alarmed. They raced aimlessly over the walls and through the great masses of creeper, uttering their cries; they seized the branches and shook them; they clambered and tumbled about with their long tails extended stiffly; they made some wondrous leaps coming down on all fours: it was a marvel that one or two did not fall off the bastion. They served to divert Nancy’s attention from the trouble below.
Joan’s fears were not so easily allayed. She was thinking of her brother. Evan possessed a courage bordering on rashness. A knife, a loaded club—she tried to master her apprehension.
Another yell and responding shouts. The monkeys scuttled to a distant part of the ruins. As suddenly as the noise began it ceased, and all was silent except for the varying tones of the torrent. Among them Nancy still believed that she could distinguish the thin threads of the wailing of women and children.
Five minutes later Llewellyn returned breathless but unhurt. Nancy rushed towards him with outstretched hands.
“Evan! You’re safe? Thank God!”
He heard her words but made no response.
“I hope you haven’t been badly frightened,” he said, addressing them collectively.
“Did you catch him?” asked Joan, calm once more.
“We caught someone, but he was not the man we wanted. I am afraid the dacoit has escaped. You may safely come down into the keep,” he replied.
Nancy had linked her arm in his, determined not to be separated from him again until she was convinced that everything was safe. They arrived at the keep. In the centre of the open space were the constables guarding a scared Hindu. He was neither pitted with smallpox nor was there any sign of a scar on his wrist. Behind him stood a trembling woman who carried a child across her hips. A more miserable terrified little family party it would have been difficult to find.
On the reappearance of the assistant superintendent the man and his wife went down on their knees, touching the ground with their foreheads. They implored pardon for their very existence. They had already confessed that they had sheltered for the night in the fort and had pelted the monkeys with stones to keep the little thieves off the food. They had cooked their morning meal on the fire the ashes of which had been found.
Nancy and Joan were both moved to pity. Here was real misery, without digging it out of the past.
“Let the poor things go, Evan,” said Joan. “If he isn’t the man you want why should he be kept in custody?”
“He can go as soon as he likes,” replied Llewellyn. “Has he answered all your questions?” he asked of the head constable.
“Yes, sir. He can’t tell us anything. He only arrived yesterday.”
“May I give him a rupee?” asked Nancy.
“If you like. He will be overwhelmed by your generosity.”
“Who is he?”
“Someone travelling on foot from Mysore to Calicut. Would you like to see a real dungeon? We have time to look at one or two before you need start.”
The sight of an oubliette was enough to satisfy Nancy’s curiosity and drive from her mind the story of the massacre of the workmen who built the fort. They at least had not to wait for death in a dungeon. The water brought them oblivion after a few minutes.
The victims of the Rajah’s wrath who were incarcerated in the dungeons had to face a slow lingering death by starvation. They were buried alive. A single meal with a jug of water was bestowed upon them, not in mercy but with the diabolical purpose of prolonging their agony.
The hole in the floor which served as the sole entrance was just big enough to allow of the body of a man to pass through it in an upright position. Through this they were lowered. A heavy stone closed the vault and the unfortunate prisoner was seen no more.
Nancy had no desire to explore farther. She followed Joan and was soon in the saddle. Not once did she look back at the old ruin that had witnessed so many tragedies.
Inspector Maxwell was determined that there should be no failure this time over arresting the gang of smugglers. He was going to see to it himself and not trust the case to a head constable or any other inspector. He would not trouble over the women. The responsibility of breaking the laws did not lie with them. They were merely the drivers and caretakers of the cattle. He must concentrate his efforts on the capture of the men who were in charge of the transport. It would be a triumph if he could bring them to justice.
The smuggling of sandalwood is carried on extensively in South India by the aid of the Lumbadees, the Indian gipsies. They work between the plateau of Mysore and the ports on the west coast, acting as porters and carriers. They pass through the forests of the Western Ghauts, where there are few roads and those only suitable for pack-animals and pedestrians.
After depositing the sandalwood they load their bullocks with salt and return inland. The salt being dutiable is frequently contraband, having been manufactured in unlicensed salt pans on the sea coast.
Receivers of stolen and smuggled goods are never wanting in either Europe or Asia if there are means of transporting the “stuff.” From time immemorial the Lumbadees have supplied the means, in spite of an active police force at both ends of the journey.
The gipsies have other ostensible occupations besides transport. They are expert at taming wild animals, like the Kuruvas and other jungle tribes. The men give mountebank performances in which bears and monkeys take part. The women are adepts at fortune-telling. Their good humour and the absence of all tendency to ill-temper and violence go a long way towards making them popular with the people through whose villages they pass.
It is difficult to catch a Lumbadee actually breaking the law. His thieving proclivities are well known all the world over. In India his readiness to transport contraband goods gives him a certain tolerance among traders and small merchants who are not over scrupulous. He uses little-known tracks over the downs and is as familiar with the jungle as a householder is with his garden and shrubbery.
If by bad luck he is caught under suspicious circumstances, he takes care that it is not redhanded. The contraband goods are “cached” in the dense undergrowth of the jungle, or hidden in remote caves, to be retrieved later on when the constable has passed on his beat.
The one thing that may betray them as long as they are on the downs is the cloud of dust raised by the feet of the cattle as they move. The grass of the plateau is too high and hummocky to pass over it broadcast. It is necessary to keep to the old tracks others have used before them. These are deep in dust in dry weather and miry in wet, when the soil retains the imprint of feet.
When it comes to climbing up and down the Ghauts, the Lumbadee is again compelled to keep to the well-defined track that gives room for the cattle to pass with their loads. The little bullocks are extraordinarily sure-footed but the rough rocky tracks up and down the steep sides of the mountains are apt to render the cattle footsore.
The police could mark down the route taken by a gang in the open or in the forest, but it was extremely difficult to come up with a drove of loaded bullocks. The gipsies had their scouts out marking down the police. A system of signals consisting of calls, the cry of the jackal or of the eagle or a wanderoo monkey made in a certain way, conveyed all the information that was necessary to warn the travellers of danger ahead.
By the time the police reached them the cheerful laughing drivers with their headmen would explain plausibly that they had been down to the coast to deliver so many bags of coffee and were returning empty-handed for more.
Inspector Maxwell was thoroughly familiar with their ways. He believed that on this occasion he would be able to run them to earth at a certain village situated on a spur of the hills.
The spur was divided from the great mountain mass by a steep rocky gorge, down which fell the usual river in a succession of rapids on its way to the low-country. Following the line of the river was a narrow pass, negotiable for a line of loaded animals.
The ford by which the river was crossed was below the village. The Lumbadees would have to drive their cattle over the ford by an old track from which they had a fairly easy descent to the plains.
It was probable that the gang would take a much needed rest on reaching the vicinity of the village. They would water and feed their cattle, and provide themselves with a fresh supply of cooked food. The halt was necessary or it would not be made.
The village consisted of a group of huts clustered together on a rocky shelf half way up the spur. At either end of the shelf were level patches of ground where it was possible to grow a little millet and Indian corn. The inhabitants of the village could reach the pool easily. A row of stepping-stones at the upper end made the passage of the river easy for human beings, but animals were obliged to wade through the water.
Once upon a time an elephant track ran along the ridge that formed, in conjunction with the spur, the gorge. The big beasts travelled up from the enormous forests in the south in quest of the pool. An elephant needs a flat approach to its drinking place. It is unable to reach the water from the steep banks of a mountain torrent. To slip in is fatal. It also requires a pool with a fairly level bottom and easy approach. In addition to quenching its thirst the animal needs room to bathe.
Centuries ago, when the wild beasts were more plentiful in the Western Ghauts than in the present day, herds of elephants travelled along the ridge and descended into the gorge to drink and bathe.
Not within the memory of man, however, had elephants visited the place. The fact that they had once come might have been forgotten, had it not been that traces remained of the old path still distinguishable on the top of the ridge. The name, the “Drinking Place of the Great Ones,” by which the pool was known, constituted another memorial of the spot.
The headman of the village was perturbed. The Lumbadees had given him notice that they would be passing by in a day or two. Cooked food would be required, for which they were willing to pay. Not knowing what to do he had given a reluctant consent.
His people were fully alive to the advantage of selling millet dumplings and corn-cobs. They were equally aware of the unscrupulous character of their uninvited guests. If the cattle were carelessly penned they might find their way to the precious patches of cultivation and clear off the young crops like locusts.
In his perplexity the headman sent for Govind, the Kuruva.
The old man answered the summons without delay, emerging from the recesses of the forest to learn what was wanted of him. He was clothed as usual in a black blanket. The rest of his dress was negligible, a twist of an old rag over his head and a discoloured length of calico about his loins.
He was accustomed to be summoned to give advice on all sorts of subjects, the favourable date for beginning the primitive agriculture of the hill village, the best direction to take in the forest when meat was wanted and the deer had to be tracked down. Or it might be for the date of a wedding or for the naming ceremony connected with a new-born son.
The villagers received him with deep respect mingled with awe. They presented their small offerings of food and betel, all of which were accepted with grave acquiescence, but without thanks.
A mat was spread in the open under a tree, and Govind took his seat. The headman squatted on his heels opposite. They looked like two old birds that had settled down to take a rest before flying off to their feeding grounds. Without waiting for a remark from his host he opened the conversation by saying:
“I know what is wanted. It is a difficult task.”
“We will pay what is necessary.”
“Is the Lumbadee messenger here?”
Someone was despatched to summon him. He came with unhurried steps. He was a fine tall imposing-looking man of middle age. His dress was of bright colours and had been cut out and sewn by a tailor. It provided a strong contrast to the clothing of the villagers and the Kuruva. Even the headman’s garments were untouched by scissors and needle.
The gipsy was acquainted with Govind and had a respect for him. Did he not dabble in the black art himself, telling the fortunes of people who gathered round him when he appeared in the towns and seaports of the coast?
“The police know the movements of your cattle,” said Govind.
“And we are aware of the movements of the police,” returned the gipsy. “They have followed us but they have not been able to take us. They believe that our cattle will cross the ford to-morrow at dawn. It is then that we shall be in danger, for there is no other way down the pass but by the ford.”
“Is it not possible to cross at night? The constables do not like being out in the forest after sunset.”
“It is too much for the cattle. They need rest as well as the drivers. Their loads are heavy,” said the gipsy.
The headman of the village had something to say.
“It will not be wise to allow the cattle and their drivers to come near our houses. They cannot be hidden and they will leave tracks of their feet. We shall be charged with giving them assistance. There are some caves——”
They looked at Govind. Had he no solution to offer?
“Is there no way of turning the police away?” asked the headman.
“If we had our big magician——” began the Lumbadee. “But he is far away and there is no time to call him here.”
Something in his words or his expression stirred the Kuruva. It was not pleasant to hear his own powers of magic compared unfavourably with those of another. Govind snorted impatiently.
“It is expecting a big thing,” he remarked again.
“What?” enquired the headman of the village.
“To hold up the police till all danger is over.”
“It cannot be done?” asked the Lumbadee.
“. . . except at a price,” added Govind.
A discussion followed. It was some time before the bargain was concluded and then it was provisional. He was to receive so much salt from the Lumbadees and a certain quantity of millet from the headman of the village.
In return for the promised payment the Kuruva was to guarantee the safe passage of the gipsies down to the low country. The villagers also were to escape the charge of having assisted the gipsies to elude the police and of having provided them with food.
“I cannot prevent the police from interfering when once the cattle reach the plains,” said Govind.
“All will be easy after leaving the hills. There will be carts waiting,” replied the Lumbadee. “They will be covered with faggots of firewood. The sandalwood will go safely to the end of the journey and the cattle will rest till we pick up the salt. I have information that this is the point where the police expect to catch us.”
“They can try,” said the old man, as he rose to his feet and left the village council.
Inspector Maxwell had laid his plans to his own satisfaction. His one fear was lest the gang of smugglers should suddenly change their minds and take another route. It was at this hill village, as the Lumbadee declared, that he confidently hoped to be able to round them up and make the necessary arrests.
The village was some distance from the police camp. He decided to spend the night at one of the small police stations from which he could reach the village easily at dawn. The gipsies could not start before daylight, but they would try to get away before the sun rose behind the peaks on the east. Maxwell had four constables with him.
The mists of the night clung to the valleys and hung about the dense forest that filled the ravines. The monsoon rains were over and he did not anticipate being held up by a serious downpour. If rain came it would be in a short thunderstorm of no consequence. Fog, he knew he must face. It would be one of his difficulties at that early hour. Under cover of the mist the smugglers had their one chance of avoiding detection.
At dawn Maxwell had reached a point from which he had an extensive view. In front was the massive ridge, saddle-backed and clothed in scrub vegetation, with here and there a veteran forest tree. Beyond the ridge was the ravine down which the river ran towards the “Drinking Place of the Great Ones.” On the other side of the ravine was the village. He called up his men, who had been tramping in single file behind him, and spoke to them. They had already received instructions and understood what their errand was.
“We have to cross the ridge in front of us,” said the inspector, as the men formed up to the best of their ability—the path was narrow and the hummocks of grass big and ragged. “We descend on the other side where we shall find stepping-stones by which we can pass over the river. We shall have to make a quick journey to the village if we don’t find them at the pool where they should be watering. The track they will take follows the line of the valley. There is no other path that they can use with any safety for their bullocks.”
A volume of mist rolled up from the ravine like steam from gigantic cauldrons. It spread towards them, obliterating the landscape and isolating them to such an extent that it was impossible to see more than three or four feet of the narrow path on which they stood. They continued stationary and waited for an improvement in the visibility.
“Keep together,” Maxwell cautioned his men. “If we get out of touch it will be difficult to find one another again.”
As he ceased speaking a figure came out of the fog. Maxwell found himself confronted by the Kuruva.
The inspector was startled. The old man seemed to spring out of the cloud from nowhere. The constables were equally startled, but they were not surprised. They were familiar with the Kuruva’s way of appearing unexpectedly in all sorts of places and at strange moments.
“Hallo! You old jungle-wallah!” cried Maxwell, unable to hide his annoyance. “What are you doing out here?”
Suspicion rose in his mind at once. Was the old man hoping to lead him astray? He would be wrong if he entertained such a thought.
“I came to meet your honour and to give you news,” replied Govind apologetically.
“News about the Lumbadees and their movements? You need not trouble yourself. I know all that is necessary about their errand to the coast.”
If Govind gave him news, as he called it, it was bound to be misleading, was his opinion. The sharp retort was not lost on the Kuruva. He blinked his eyes, the only sign that he understood the implication. Govind continued his tale:
“The Lumbadees have arrived near the village with their loads of sandalwood. They depart as soon as they have taken food.”
“And why do you tell me this?” asked Maxwell, surprised that the old man should be lending assistance to the police instead of aiding the smugglers.
“Your honour wishes to catch them?”
“Of course. Otherwise I shouldn’t be out here in this cold fog. Where are they? In the village?”
He spoke irritably. He had passed an uncomfortable night in a small village police station only intended for the accommodation of the constables. He found no appliances for bathing beyond the tin pot and jar of water used by Hindus. There were no scented soap or clean towels, no clothes-brush or means of cleaning and blacking his muddy shoes. Untidiness made him miserable. Toilet accessories were essential for Maxwell’s comfort and self-esteem. Govind continued his story, which was being received by the inspector with increasing disbelief.
“The headman refused to allow the gipsies to enter his village, your honour,” replied Govind, quietly, as though he wished to set the inspector’s mind at rest and allay the irritation which had arisen.
“Just as well for himself that he gave them no help,” said Maxwell less aggressively. “Did the Lumbadees pass on down the Ghaut?”
“They were too tired to go farther, your honour, the cattle as well as the drivers.”
“What became of them?”
“The Lumbadee headman ordered them to shelter in the caves beyond the village. They are there now. They have eaten and are rested. In an hour’s time they will be moving on and should reach the low country by sunset. They walk slowly and it might be possible for your honour to follow and overtake them before they arrive at the cart road.”
“What do they intend to do when they get there? They will still be ten miles or more from any town.”
“Carts carrying straw and firewood and sugarcane will meet them. The sandalwood will be hidden——”
“Who are in charge of the carts?”
“Moormen dealers belonging to the French town of Mahe. The Moormen are rough and use knives. It will be best to catch the Lumbadees before they meet the carts.”
All this was extremely probable: Govind was not inventing. As Maxwell listened he became more inclined to believe that for once the old man was “speaking true word only,” as he would have put it.
“Where exactly are the caves in which you say they sheltered for the night?” asked Maxwell.
He was not familiar with this particular spot. The constables with him had visited the place. They gave the headman a good character and spoke well of him.
“The caves are above the old elephant pool.”
Maxwell’s eyes rested on the Kuruva in keen enquiry. He was puzzled by what he considered was nothing less than a betrayal of the gipsies. He concluded that the gang had refused to square the headman of the village and to pay the sum demanded for shelter. The headman had therefore sent the Kuruva to betray the gipsies and get them into trouble.
“And you have come to tell me where they are so that I may catch them?” Maxwell enquired.
The small eyes shone in the white light of the mist which hung about. It continued to obliterate the landscape with a density that had something weird and uncanny about it.
“There will be a reward?” asked Govind.
“Of course, if the information leads to the arrest of the smugglers. Anyone who helps the police in their work is properly rewarded.”
“This poor old man will be pleased to accept whatever your honour thinks fit to give,” replied Govind, with an humility that would not have deceived Llewellyn, although it went far to flatter the self-esteem of the inspector.
The constables had gathered round the Kuruva. They were deeply interested in the conversation. The expression on their faces was serious. They, too, were at a loss to understand why the old man was thus going out of his way to aid the police.
“How much help can you give us?” enquired Maxwell.
“I will lead your honour to the place where the Lumbadees are now eating their food. As soon as they have finished they will start.”
“Lead on then. Let us waste no more time talking.”
The inspector was not sorry to have a guide if he could be relied upon. In clear weather he would have had no difficulty in finding his way for himself. The cloud made all the difference. The mist floated about, thickening and thinning unaccountably. It had also the peculiar property of seeming to magnify objects that were partially obscured. It would not be an easy matter to find the way over the ridge and down on the other side to the river. To lose the way would be a waste of valuable time this morning.
The path was nothing but a game track. It twisted and turned continuously to avoid patches of low scrub and big boulders. It had a way of forking which added to the traveller’s perplexity and it was little used, one of the reasons it had been followed by the gipsies.
Cloud mist, as all hill-climbers know, is curiously deceptive. The densest fog will part suddenly like a torn curtain, revealing glimpses of the scenery and vistas not easily identified because of their fragmentary nature. Then it closes down on the bewildered pedestrian with a blinding density that blots out every landmark. It seems to be governed by no rule and to obey no winds.
They marched in single file, Govind leading through the dewy grass in silence. They began to rise above the level of the plateau. Maxwell concluded that they were at the base of the ridge which stood between them and the ravine.
The primeval forest had long since been cut down and destroyed by generations of charcoal burners. Nothing but the scrub, together with the usual boulders obstructed the way. If the Kuruva could show them a track with no worse hindrances than those which they were now facing, the caves should be reached in ten minutes time.
The sky lightened with the rising of the sun which was still below the horizon. The cloud, to Maxwell’s satisfaction, became thinner and less opaque as they mounted the ridge. To the south the shoulder of the mountain was high and rugged. To the north it fell away broken into cliffs.
They had climbed half way up towards the top of the ridge when Govind raised his hand as a signal to the party to stop. He turned a listening ear in the direction of the loftier part of the mountain to the south. From his attitude his companions concluded that he had caught a distant sound. The constables brought up the rear and gathered round Govind. Their eyes were fixed upon him in curiosity. They were aware that his ears, trained to catch every sound of the forest and hill, were sharper than theirs. Moreover he could interpret much that they could not.
“What do you hear, old man?” asked the inspector, impatient at the check. Every minute was of consequence.
“Big beasts moving, your honour.”
“They are the herds of the villagers going out to graze,” he suggested.
“The people have no cattle. They keep a few goats but these do not cross the river. The village as your honour knows is on the other side.”
It was evident that the sound, whatever it was, had reached the ears of his men and that they had also heard something strange and unusual. Their eyes turned towards the top of the ridge now faintly discernible through the fog. A roll of distant thunder in the south suggested a shower.
“Let’s get on,” said Maxwell impatiently. If once the gipsies began to move he would have an extremely difficult task in rounding them up, travelling as they did in straggling line, single file. “We mustn’t allow ourselves to be delayed by anything, cloud or rain, or herds of goats. Lead on, Govind.”
Again the arresting hand was lifted.
“Your honour, we must wait. We must let them pass.”
“Who? What?” demanded Maxwell with an increasing impatience.
“The great ones, the elephants.”
“There are no elephants in these parts. That was thunder we heard——”
“Your honour is right. It was thunder. But there are other sounds as well.”
“What sounds?”
“The tramp of many feet, making thunder on the ground and the talking of those who pass. The great ones are moving along their old tracks on the top of the ridge. They are going to the river to drink and bathe. Then they will travel to the low-country where the forest is warmer and the young sugar-plantations lie.”
The senior constable spoke.
“We, too, can hear the elephants passing, your honour. We ought to move back a little to be out of their way. We are too near their road.”
“Let be,” said Govind. “They will not notice us, and the wind blows from them to us.”
Maxwell had not yet caught the sound. He was too irritated to keep silent.
“It will be something very unusual if elephants are travelling in this direction. It must be the torrent that you hear.”
“Listen!” It was a command. “Will your honour please excuse an old man and listen to the passing of the great ones.”
The inspector looked up at the ridge, which was becoming clearer through the mist. He caught a confused sound which came in on a sudden gust of wind. It was the trumpeting of a wild elephant. The sound was unmistakable. The forest has nothing like it, the belling of a sambur, the roar of a tiger, the hoarse growl of the bear, none of these calls can emulate the trumpet of the great one, when he is gathering his kind for the purpose of travel. Another call and another fell on Maxwell’s ears. He could no longer deny their presence.
“There are three or four of them, apparently,” he said, falling back a few yards.
He was familiar with every animal to be found on the Western Ghauts. It was true that he had never encountered wild elephants at that particular spot. He had been within sight and sound of them in other parts of the mountain range. On one occasion he had been glad to climb a tree to get away from a destructive herd.
“There are more than three or four,” remarked one of the constables.
His birthplace was at the foot of the hills in an agricultural village where lingered many traditions of the ravages of the great ones when they were seeking food.
The inspector frowned. He was annoyed. He could not deny the evidence of his ears and eyes, but he possessed an orderly mind. For some time past, half a century, perhaps more, the elephants had forsaken this part of the district and had confined their ravages to the more southern ranges of hills. It was annoying that they should have returned to their old haunts. He would report their presence and recommend their destruction.
“It is a most remarkable thing,” he said, addressing no one in particular. “I know for a fact that no elephants have been seen here for the last fifty years. There must be some influence we know nothing of to turn them northwards.”
The constables were showing signs of uneasiness and would have retreated farther away if they had not been under the direct orders of their superior officer. They were in no mood to face a herd in the open. There was an entire absence of shelter within reach, no forest tree up which they could climb, no cave or crevice in the rocks in which they could hide.
“Stay where you are,” said Govind, who noticed their nervousness. “Keep quite still. I know them. The great ones do not wander from the chosen road when they travel to reach water.”
“Are you sure that we are not in their path?” asked a constable. “We have no wish to be trampled to death.”
“Be silent and keep still,” commanded the old man. “They will go to the pool and will take no notice of us where we are.”
“They are close to us. I can hear the purring and grumbling sound they make as well as the tramp of their feet,” replied the constable.
“Now you can see them,” said Govind, in a strangely dominant tone. “Look! The leader is in front——”
He pointed to the top of the ridge with an imperious gesture. The sun, which by this time should have been showing itself above the eastern horizon, was obscured, drowned in a white mist. A breeze from the south-west was helping to lift the cloud and sweep it clear of the wet vegetation to which it clung. The ridge was not yet free from the trailing filaments which resembled carded wool. Through it the inspector and his men had a marvellous view of the passing of the great ones. It was a scene that Maxwell never forgot.
A big bull elephant led the way. It was followed by animals that seemed to have formed themselves into linked groups. Here two or three beasts, swinging their trunks up and down and flapping their ears, pushed along with small ceremony. They grunted and purred as though they were commenting on the condition of their old road. They crashed through bushes and saplings like cows through a field of beans, doing surprisingly little damage to the yielding vegetation.
A cow elephant herded its calf in front of it. The youngster was not allowed to wander. If it attempted to break away the mother threw its trunk over it and brought it into line again, a piece of discipline it resented with irritable snorts and shrill screams.
Then a couple lumbered up with a slow ambling trot and they passed out of sight. For a time the herd seemed thicker and the forms of the beasts less distinct. One or two fell out in search of fodder, but they took care not to wander far and were presently jostling the others in the steady march towards the pool. They never lost sight of the object of their journey, for they were thirsty and tired with their long walk.
“The great ones” moved slowly. It took fully thirty minutes for the herd to pass. The mist gathered again and shut out the view. The clouds seemed as though they were waiting to join forces with the thunderstorm which was still occasionally rumbling in the far south.
Gradually the trumpeting and grunting, the snorting and purring, ceased. The tramp of the great feet died away into silence. Maxwell turned to Govind.
“Shall we be moving on, old man?” he asked.
“Not yet, your honour, not yet. The great ones must have time to drink and to throw the water over their dusty bodies. They must leave the pool before we show ourselves. If a cow with a calf catches sight of us she will charge. The ravine gives no shelter.”
“Time is valuable. The Lumbadees may sneak off before we can come up with them. They won’t stay long now that it is light.”
“They too will fear the elephants and will wait till it is safe to go down the pass with their cattle,” said Govind.
Another ten minutes went by and the inspector’s patience was exhausted. He determined to start. He glanced round for the Kuruva. Govind was nowhere to be seen. His presence was not really necessary. They had the ridge before them and could not well miss it. The old man had put them in the direct way of reaching the stepping-stones. All they had to do was to go down to the river on the other side of the ridge and climb the escarpment on which the village stood, half way up. Govind had informed them that the gipsies were to be found in the adjacent caves—if they had not succeeded in escaping.
“Where is the Kuruva?” Maxwell asked.
“He has gone back to the forest, sir,” said the head constable. “He told us that we could easily find the way from this place. He warned us that we must be certain that every elephant had left the pool before we showed ourselves——”
“Of course, of course! We are not so stupid as to go deliberately into a herd of wild elephants,” responded Maxwell, not in the best of tempers.
He started to walk, and the constables followed in single file. They were not at their ease. If the big beasts took it into their heads to return on their tracks the inspector and his men would find themselves in an uncomfortable position with no chance of escape.
Their progress was slow although Maxwell did his best to hurry. They were held up now and again by the capricious fog, transparent one minute, opaque and thick at another, when it was difficult to keep to the right track. Then they were obliged to wait for a while till the ragged cloud lifted.
The men came slowly down to the pool, listening for sounds that would betray the presence of the animals. The river ran onwards with its usual murmur. The stones gave them an easy passage across.
They climbed the opposite side of the gorge as quickly as possible and found the caves. They were empty and bore no signs of recent occupation. Outside were the ashes of a fire where food had been cooked. The place was quiet and desolate in the fog.
Maxwell was disappointed. The gipsies must have cleared out in the night. He was not over pleased with Govind and his information. Even while the old man was talking, the gipsies must have been moving down the Ghauts and leaving the mist behind them. Did the old man know this fact?
Then he remembered that Govind had said that the gipsies would be marching at sunrise. If it had not been for the interruption caused by the passing of the elephants the police would have caught the smugglers before they could have reached the cover of the forest. He could not lay the blame on the Kuruva for having been held up. On the contrary he and his men owed the old jungle-man a debt of gratitude for having saved them from blundering into the herd, an accident that would have been full of danger.
Maxwell told his men to stay where they were, an order that was received with satisfaction, seeing that they had been tramping over the downs since the small hours of the morning. They were glad to go inside the caves, where they could shelter from the wet mist that before long would be dropping its moisture in fine rain.
He returned to the stepping-stones, where he intended to look for the tracks of the great ones. Immediately below the stones was the pool. He followed the margin, but though he managed to stumble along one side of it he could find no trace of splashings. By this time the rain was obliterating everything. He only succeeded in getting his feet thoroughly wet.
He went on to the village. All was quiet there. The villagers were going about their usual occupations, their dark blankets wrapped toga-like round their thin shivering bodies.
The headman was sent for. He came, salaaming, with protestations of respect. In reply to the inspector’s questions concerning the presence of the Lumbadees with loads of sandalwood, he gave his assurance repeatedly that none had entered the village.
Had they occupied the caves during the previous night? Maxwell asked.
The headman disavowed all knowledge of such a proceeding. He pointed out that the caves belonged to the Sirkar and no one could take up residence in them without the consent of the forest officer.
Maxwell next enquired if he or his people had heard the elephants at dawn drink and bathe at the pool.
The headman looked puzzled at first and the inspector was prepared to receive a denial. But it did not come. He said that although he did not see them, being at the time inside his house, he had heard what sounded like two or three elephants splashing and snorting in the water. Some of the men had told him of their presence. Naturally they kept out of the way and did not show themselves lest the animals should be irritated and perhaps chase them. Anxious to please, he offered to send out some of his men to look for tracks. He would let his honour know if the great ones had passed that way and at what hour they were at the pool.
“The gipsies have been in this valley quite recently,” said Maxwell at a venture.
“Not with my consent or knowledge, your honour,” replied the man firmly.
“I have information that they intended to drive their cattle down the pass,” said Maxwell angrily.
“Your honour tells true word only, but must excuse your humble servant. They must have gone by before it was light, when we were asleep.”
Maxwell made many enquiries among the people. He received the same answer. No one had seen the gipsies. A few had heard the elephants but had been too frightened to attempt to see them.
“Govind, the seer, told me that I should find the gipsies in the caves,” asserted the inspector.
The headman was silent. His wife, who had appeared on the scene and had approached, overheard the statement. She at once took up the cudgels and spoke up in defence of her husband.
“That old man lied to your honour. I refused to cook food for him yesterday. This is his way of revenging himself on us. May he be accursed!”
Her shrill voice reached the ears of the little crowd that had gathered round the two.
There was nothing more to be done than to return to the camp, a long walk after a fruitless errand.
Inspector Maxwell was not in the best of spirits when he presented himself at the office tent the following morning. He told his tale honestly, however, and finished with a confession of failure.
“We were too late. The Lumbadees must have had an hour’s start of us. They got clean away before the elephants came, otherwise they must have been held up as we were,” he said.
“You couldn’t follow them?”
“Impossible, sir, with the elephants between us and them.”
“Do you think that the gipsies were there at all?”
“The reports differ. The headman swore that he had seen nothing of them. Govind assured me that they had passed the night in the caves. I am inclined to believe him rather than the headman, who I know is extremely anxious not to be implicated.”
Llewellyn glanced at his inspector as though he expected an explanation for his opinion.
“Do you suppose that the gipsies had offended the Kuruva?”
“Quite possibly that was the case. The Lumbadees do their own pooja and magic. They wouldn’t want Govind’s assistance.”
“Did the caves look as if they had recently been occupied?” asked Llewellyn.
“Not by cattle, but then, they might have been swept out. The Lumbadees are very clever at getting rid of all traces of themselves. A fire had been made between the caves and the river where they might have cooked their food, but the ashes had been carefully scraped away and scattered.”
Llewellyn was puzzled. The report of wild elephants in the locality was surprising, but it was impossible to disbelieve the story. He would interview the constables presently and hear what they had to say. Not that he doubted Maxwell. It would be more satisfactory to have the inspector’s account of the incident corroborated.
“Had you a near view of the elephants?”
“Quite close enough for my liking, sir. We heard and saw them.”
“In spite of the mist?”
“The mist dispersed to a great extent on the top of the ridge although it remained thick on the downs.”
After a pause Llewellyn remarked with a wry smile.
“Our luck is not in just now, inspector.”
“No, sir. You missed the man at the fort and my little lot gave me the slip also.”
“As far as the criminal goes who was supposed to be hiding in the fort,” amended Llewellyn, “it turns out that he was not the man who was wanted. I have just received information from Mysore that he was only a red herring across the trail. He managed to reach the west coast. The real murderer got down to a port on the east coast. The authorities believe that he shipped with a gang of coolies enlisted by a timber company for Burmah and he has escaped.”
“Whether the fugitive in the fort was guilty or not,” said Maxwell, speaking positively, “I am quite convinced that Govind assisted him, showed him the way through the forests and put him safe on the Ghaut road.”
“Govind didn’t deceive you over the Lumbadees,” remarked Llewellyn, who was always ready to take the old man’s part when the inspector was inclined to be hard on him. As Maxwell did not reply he added: “I think you have him to thank for the timely warning he gave you over the elephants. If it hadn’t been for him, you would have walked slap into them. You might have had a serious accident.”
Maxwell made no comment on the hint that he owed the Kuruva a debt of gratitude. He felt inclined to point out to his too lenient chief that he could have seen and heard the elephants without the assistance of the old man. He dropped the subject of the smugglers. He had something to say that might throw fresh light upon Govind’s actions.
“I have had certain information, sir, that I think I ought to lay before you.”
“What is it?”
“Two men passed our camp yesterday. They stopped to speak to the constable on duty. They told him that they had seen Govind in company with a stranger whose description answered exactly to that sent to us of the fugitive who was hiding in the fort.”
“Considering that he proved to be the wrong man,” replied Llewellyn, “I don’t know if it matters now whether the Kuruva was helping him or not.”
“Except that to all intents and purposes he was assisting someone to escape who at the time was wanted by us.”
“How did they describe the man who was with Govind?” asked Llewellyn.
“He was pock-marked and had a scar on his hand. That was the description given of the criminal.”
“But if the murderer got away by an east coast port, the Kuruva could not possibly have been helping him.”
“Is it known for certain that he shipped for Burmah? The fugitive in the fort may after all have been the real man,” said Maxwell.
“Too late to prove it now,” replied Llewellyn.
“In any case Govind was undoubtedly acting as his guide when he was met by these villagers. In doing so he was incriminating himself and rendering himself liable to be prosecuted for aiding and abetting in the escape of a thief and murderer, reckoned to be such until it was proved otherwise.”
Llewellyn looked serious. If his inspector pursued the enquiry and brought forward witnesses to prove his charge, it might make it very unpleasant for the old man.
Maxwell felt an inward glow of satisfaction. He had a secret hope that this testimony of the unsuspecting villagers would at last show his superior officer that his own suspicion concerning the duplicity of the Kuruva was correct.
“Can you find the two men who saw Govind in the company of the criminal?” asked Llewellyn.
“I believe I can, sir.”
“Were the two men together when they met the Kuruva and his companion?”
“No, they were separate, they met at different points of the road. This fact strengthens the evidence and makes it more conclusive. There could be no collusion. Their word is reliable, I should like to follow it up, sir.”
“I don’t know that any real good can be done. As I said it is too late: the men have got away and we can do nothing more. Why did the villagers bring the information to the camp?”
“They are looking for a reward, of course, sir.”
“Not much chance of it now. Whether the fugitive was the real dacoit or not, he is no longer in the country, and it is of no use hoping for a reward.”
“The satisfaction would be in exposing the Kuruva’s tricks and giving him a lesson, sir. If it was proved, you would forbid him to come to the camp, would you not?”
“Certainly I should do so, but it must be made clear beyond all doubt that his sympathies are with the criminals and that he aids them,” said Llewellyn.
“Even if it is only suspected that he helps them, he would be best away from the camp.”
“It is in consideration for the feelings, the superstitions perhaps I ought to say, of the constables, that I allow him to come. They regard him as a kind of mascot, and they would not like it if I banished him without reason,” said Llewellyn, who had no wish to oppose his inspector or to show favour towards any one person to the prejudice of law and order.
“I am puzzled,” he observed presently. “However, you may carry on with your enquiry, inspector, provided the old man is treated fairly.”
He could not fail to see the gratification with which Maxwell received permission to pursue the enquiry. Evan determined, however, that no injustice should be done. Personally he had no objection to the presence of the old man, who interested and attracted him as one of the little-known inhabitants of the forest.
They proceeded to other business. Llewellyn did his best to curb his impatience: he was anxious to escape from the office. Maxwell seemed unusually precise with all the details he had recorded in his voluminous pocket-book: he was always inclined to be verbose in reporting the cases.
On ordinary occasions Llewellyn listened with exemplary patience, or seemed to do so. Frequently he was considering the pros and cons, paying little attention to what Maxwell was saying.
He had decided to take a few hours off this morning and devote them to Nancy. He would make up for it in the afternoon by paying a visit to the village where he believed the smugglers had passed the night. There was something mysterious about their escape. Maxwell had been very positive that he had seen the wild elephants. Llewellyn would be more convinced of the truth of the story if he could find their tracks and trace them on the old road of the ridge. He meant to keep his intentions concerning his afternoon expedition to himself. He would slip away after lunch, riding as far as the pony could take him and returning on foot. The pony would be sent back with the syce, and he himself could reach the camp by sunset. He would not be too tired to enjoy the company of the girls after dinner.
He found Nancy extended at full length in a long camp chair in the shade of one of the big forest trees of the glade.
“Where’s Joan?” he asked.
“Giving the cook a bad half hour I imagine. He has just come back from the bazaar. He has probably brought everything except the things she ordered, after the manner of his kind.”
“Come for a walk, Nancy,” he said.
“Rather!” she cried. “Let me get my sun hat and umbrella.”
She sprang up, her eyes sparkling with pleasure, and ran off to her tent.
“Joan! Joan!” she called. “Evan and I are going for a stroll. Will you come too?”
“Can’t, my dear, too busy.”
Nancy did not stop to press her friend. She was aware that house-keeping duties were as imperatively necessary in camp as they were in the bungalow. She was not disappointed: two would be company in this case, herself and Evan, Joan would make a bad third.
“You like spooky places, Nancy?” enquired Llewellyn, as she joined him.
“Oh! Not the wading stones, please!” she exclaimed.
“No, I am going in another direction, to show you the valley of the were-tiger. You have heard of the were-wolf of Germany and le loup garou of France. This is the devil-tiger of India that has the power of changing itself into a man——”
He took her arm. The path was narrow and rough and she was not sorry to have his assistance.
“Before you tell me your story,” she said, “I have something to say. I had a letter from my mother this morning. She wants me back.”
“Not till your visit to us is ended,” he protested.
“So sorry, but I must go to-morrow.”
“I thought you were going to make it a week.”
“Joan was kind enough to suggest a week, but when I wrote I said it must be a flying visit of two or three days.”
“Hard lines! Nancy! Must you go?”
“Mother has visitors coming, self-invited like me to you, so I can’t complain.”
“Don’t go. Give it a miss,” he said, his hand closing with a grip on her arm as though he would keep her by force.
“Impossible!” she replied, with a deep sigh. “I have been so happy with you and Joan. My first experience of camping, too.”
“Let me send a peon to say that you are not coming,” he said, as he slipped an arm round her waist.
“Mother is sending the car up to meet me to-morrow morning. I must borrow Joan’s pony to ride down to the Ghaut road to meet it.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said.
“What about your work, Evan? I thought you never let anything come in the way of it.”
“I’ll leave Maxwell to carry on. He will be proud to do it. He can’t do much mischief in the course of the morning. I should like to drive you down to your father’s house. I have my own little car at the police station on the Ghaut road. May I Nancy—darling?”
“Cheek!” she flung back at him. “You’re getting on—darling”; and they both laughed.
They had to pick their way, first through the jungle, then out into the open, where they faced a magnificent mass of mountain, the bold slopes covered with coarse grass.
The air was keen and fresh and the sun hot. Nancy opened her umbrella. It was large and covered with white calico. If Llewellyn was tempted to continue his love-making he was faced with a difficulty that he had not anticipated. How can a man talk of love to a girl who carries a large umbrella and wears a mushroom hat?
The pause in the conversation gave him time to think. He realised that he had begun to make love to his sister’s friend. Where was it leading him as well as his sister? He had not contemplated dissolving the partnership between himself and Joan. It had been entered upon with a vague idea that it would last indefinitely, or until Joan herself wished to make some other arrangement.
“Is this the way to a tiger’s den?” asked Nancy, as she called a halt on the steep hillside.
“We are going to look down into it. I don’t propose to ask you to enter it.”
“Is there a tiger in residence, then?”
“There hasn’t been one for the last fifty years. The reason we don’t attempt to enter it is because of the difficulty.”
They climbed to the top of the shoulder of the hill, and Llewellyn once more possessed himself of her arm.
“Take care how you walk. It won’t do to slip over the edge.”
A few more yards brought them to the precipice in which the mountain mass ended. It was a sheer drop of a thousand feet to the dense bed of jungle below. He made her kneel down to look over, lest she should turn giddy.
“Do you see a ravine running into the hill to your right? It is formed by another wall of rock like this upon which we are sitting. There is no known way down into the bottom of the ravine from here. Yet a path exists somewhere, for at one time, long ago, a tiger found its way from the ravine to this point.”
“You’re sure that there is no tiger living down there now?” asked Nancy, drawing a little closer to her companion.
“None. You need not be afraid.”
“I’m not frightened—with you, darling,” she replied, snuggling closer still as though she was terrified out of her life.
His pulse quickened. If they had not been on the edge of a precipice, each wearing a sun topee and one of them well sheltered under the white umbrella, Evan would have shown her what a charming protector he could be.
“The last tiger that lived down there was a terrible beast, so the story goes. It was a man-eater and was in the habit of coming up here by the track known only to itself. It prowled over the downs, hunting for herdsmen who brought their cattle and goats out to graze. It left the animals alone and went for the men. When it caught a human being it did not kill him but carried him off to its lair in the ravine. Probably it was a cave. These cliffs have huge crevices in them that make dry shelters for the larger wild animals.”
“Of course it ate the man,” said Nancy.
“Not immediately. It kept him alive for a couple of days before it killed him. He called to his friends to come to his assistance, but it was impossible to get down into the ravine. Even if the track used by the tiger could have been found, no one could have travelled by it but a strong four-footed creature of the feline race. It took toll of the villagers for ten miles round and it always dragged its victim to the ravine. There was something very mysterious about it. The village people declared that the tiger made its captives walk the distance.”
“What happened to the brute?”
“It was reported that an officer stationed on the west coast was a great shikaree. A deputation of the villagers went to him and prayed that he would come and shoot it. They brought with them a silver bullet upon which a village seer had breathed a spell and they begged him to use it. He consented to come and shoot the beast. They led him to this very spot and down there, where you see that slab of rock, he was shown the tiger.”
Nancy peered over the edge of the cliff.
“I can see it, the rock, I mean,” she whispered, half expecting that the striped beast would be lying there.
“The tiger was stretched at full length on the rock,” Llewellyn continued, “just like a big cat sunning itself on a warm tiled roof. A little distance away was its latest victim alive and just able to move. Every time he lifted himself and tried to sit up or stand the tiger snarled and showed its teeth, a warning to him to remain where he was. The sportsman took careful aim and fired.”
“He killed it?” asked Nancy, catching her breath.
“The tiger rolled off the rock and disappeared in the vegetation behind it.”
“Were they able to rescue the poor man?”
“It took some hours to reach him by way of the jungle. A passage had to be hacked through. When they got to the rock the man was dead, probably of exhaustion and fright.”
“And the tiger?”
“Ah, that’s where the spookiness comes in!”
“It wasn’t killed! Oh, don’t say that it wasn’t killed!”
“I believe, myself, that it was killed, although it was not a tiger that they found.”
“What—what did they find?”
“Another old man, who was said to be living in the jungle by himself, but where, no one could tell. The villagers were terrified of him: they declared that when they met him he looked at them savagely, just like a tiger. He was lying where the tiger ought to have been found and he had a bullet in his heart.”
“Was it a silver bullet?” asked Nancy.
“Report says that it was.”
There was silence. Evan had managed to put his head under the umbrella. He had removed his own topee and pushed hers back.
“Was the tiger ever heard of again?”
“Never. It disappeared. The villagers were so frightened at what they had found that they ran away and never went near the place again. They left the bodies where they found them. They firmly believed that the old man turned himself into a tiger when he wanted food. He was a cannibal, the old wretch!”
“Are the natives still afraid to meet him?”
“Not a soul will venture up here, nor will anyone go into the ravine below. The woodmen leave that particular bit of jungle severely alone. It has grown so thick that it is impassable. They say that the tiger still walks as a forest devil. They also declare that the demon tiger can be heard at night roaring. It has a hoarse voice that is unlike an ordinary tiger and it may be seen in the moonlight, prowling along the edge of the precipice. Would you like to come up here and look for it?”
“Not alone, Evan, and I shouldn’t like to be down in that ravine even by daylight. How far is it from the nearest road?”
“Ten miles, probably, as the crow flies, but a good bit farther by the game tracks. Possibly double.”
Nancy continued to stare down into the abyss below, attracted by the fascination of looking into a region that was beyond the reach of man.
“You won’t see the tiger or the old man’s ghost, however long you may watch. Come along, darling. We have a bit of a walk to get back to camp, and it’s time you were out of the sun. It’s hot up here with no shade.”
They strolled down the hill, he with a firm and ready grip on her arm where the track was steep and rough. The jungle began with a solidity of foliage that was impenetrable, except where men and animals had made their tracks and kept the way clear through the ages with their knives and their tread.
They lost the breeze directly they left the downs on the hill, but the shade was even more acceptable than the breeze. The forest had not yet lost the coolness thrown over it by the night’s mantle of mist.
The path curved this way and that, but they required no guide. Evan knew the way. He apologised for its difficulties. His companion did not complain. His hand and arm were always ready. Nancy was frequently obliged to step down three or four feet where the living rock cropped out. Sometimes she found herself knee-deep in beds of fern. With each step she never knew if the ground would be soft beneath her feet like a cushion of moss or wring her ankles with an uneven rocky surface.
“Oh dear! This is rough walking, Evan,” she said, glancing up at him pathetically as she seated herself on a boulder almost buried in fern.
Her umbrella had been closed and used as a walking-stick since she had entered the forest. She took off her sun hat and pushed her tumbled hair back.
“Hot, little darling? I wish I hadn’t brought you so far!”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I have never looked down into the depths of the jungle before. It must be rather like seeing the country from an aeroplane. There is something thrilling in the thought that the immense tract below us is isolated by its density and undisturbed except for the sounds that it has been accustomed to for centuries. I wonder——”
“Yes?” said Evan, whose thoughts were far from the jungle.
“I wonder when it will be startled into new life by a motor-horn.”
Evan had found space to seat himself by her side. There was not much room for two people but of that he did not complain. His arm clasped her closely.
“Nancy, darling! I wonder—if you know how much I love you!”
The jungle and its mysteries were forgotten.
“I think I can tell you. Just a wee bit—less—than I love you!”
The pigeons cooed in the branches overhead as they tried to tell each other the same old tale that was being repeated by the lovers below.
A distant shout startled them. They came out of the realms of romance abruptly, and Nancy sprang to her feet.
“Who’s that?” cried Evan, not best pleased.
“It sounds like Joan,” she replied.
“Bother! I was just beginning to tell you——” he began.
“The rest must wait till this evening, darling. After dinner we will continue the discussion.”
She raised her voice and answered the call. In a few seconds Joan, looking very business-like in plus-fours, thick stockings and boots and carrying a long staff, appeared. She mounted the steep path towards them with a facility that roused Nancy’s envy.
“Here you are! Caught you up at last! You’ve taken your time about it,” she cried.
“We have been to the top of the hill and are on our way back,” said Evan, correcting her.
“Did you see the tiger’s den, Nancy?” she asked.
“Rather! I wish I could have seen the tiger as well.”
“Only the jungle people can see him, and then it must be after sunset. Devils are not allowed to walk abroad during the day.”
Nancy stumbled; Joan caught her by the arm:
“Steady on!” she warned her friend. “Next time you pay us a visit in camp, Nancy, you must bring a rig-out like mine.”
Llewellyn had gone on ahead. Joan called to him to stop and lend a hand. He retraced his steps and held out his stick.
“Hang on to this, Nancy,” he said, in a different tone from that in which he had been speaking before his sister appeared. “Hold tight and step into my footmarks if you can manage it. We mustn’t send you home with a broken ankle.”
She made no reply as she gripped the handle of the stick extended towards her. His sudden change of manner was reflected in herself. They both unconsciously felt the reaction of the interruption. After walking a few yards she rejected the assistance he had offered.
“I can get on better alone,” she said. “You go ahead and show the way.”
He glanced at her in perplexity, uncertain if she intended him to take her at her word.
“Get on Evan,” said Joan, who was experiencing no difficulty whatever. “You mustn’t be late for lunch if you wish to get away at two.”
“Where are you going?” asked Nancy, who had taken it for granted that he would give the rest of the day to her.
“I’m afraid I can’t spare the afternoon. I shall be back to dinner——”
“Do go on, old boy!” said Joan. “You’re stopping the road. I’ll look after Nancy.”
Silently he obeyed his sister. Before long he was round the next turning and out of sight.
“This isn’t a promenade,” observed Joan. “It’s absolutely necessary to walk Indian file in a forest track like this.”
Whether she intended her remark to be apologetic Nancy did not know. Evan had been practically dismissed. She and he had climbed the path together. Why should they not have descended in the same fashion? It would have necessitated his arm being placed round her waist but that would not have mattered. There would have been no intervals for love-making of course. Why should Joan be so sharp with her brother?
In another twenty minutes they were at the camp and ready for their lunch.
It was not the fault of either Evan or Nancy that they failed to discover an opportunity for continuing their pleasant conversation begun in the jungle. Somehow, whenever they came together Joan was there, which, after all, was quite natural.
Joan was full of good spirits as a rule, and was never at a loss for something to talk about, but to-day her sallies fell flat. The other two were “not amused.” Llewellyn was evidently in a hurry to get off. He had a long journey before him. It could easily be done between lunch and dinner, if he lost no time in his preparations. Joan, always thoughtful for his welfare, handed him a little packet of food which was to serve as the afternoon tea which he would miss. The pony would save his legs, for half the journey, but as it was only a jungle path that he was to follow it would be no saving of time. The animal could only go at a walking pace.
Nancy strolled with him to the stable tent. Joan saw her go but did not think it necessary to follow. With the syce present, and perhaps a constable, she was not afraid that her brother would continue the love-making which she shrewdly suspected had begun in the forest. It was scarcely a fitting opportunity for “spooning,” as she contemptuously termed it. Their remarks made while he mounted must, she considered be commonplace and of little importance.
But herein Joan was out of her reckoning. As the two paced slowly along Evan found the chance for which he was looking.
“Nancy, darling, I couldn’t say all I wanted this morning, not a quarter of what was in my mind. Joan butted in.”
“We shall be able to have a chat this evening after dinner.”
“There’s a lot to discuss,” continued Evan. “Darling! do you think you can be happy with a police officer——”
“Oh, Evan! why not? The question will be——”
Here they were checked by the sight of the syce leading forward the pony.
“One thing you haven’t told me properly, Nancy. Do you love me?”
A constable approached with a small knapsack which Llewellyn was in the habit of slinging over his shoulder when he started on a long excursion. It contained the essentials for an old traveller: tobacco, matches, food and a flask. Nothing can be bought in the wilds to eat and the forest streams are poisonous with germs. Llewellyn also carried an electric torch.
“I’ll tell you to-night,” said Nancy, her eyes shining provokingly.
“Tell me now, darling!”
“Perhaps I do, perhaps I don’t,” she replied mischievously. “What time will you be back in camp?”
“At sunset without fail.”
He placed his foot in the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle.
“Without fail, mind,” she repeated. “If you don’t turn up on time, as they say, I’ll never speak to you again.”
“Nothing on earth shall stop me,” he assured her.
Her lips formed the word darling. He read it, uncertain if it was really spoken or only breathed.
Joan, from a distance, had watched her brother ride away with a tumult in her heart. Each hour that passed strengthened the conviction that Nancy had captured him. She could not accuse her friend of deliberate design. Nancy was attractive and could be very charming. Evan was a good fellow and would make any girl happy if he fell in love. But it would not do for either of these temperamental young people to rush into matrimony without due consideration, thought Joan with a sudden matronly seriousness. A visit of less than a week was too short a time for them to discover the true state of their feelings.
Joan glanced after Nancy who was wandering up the glade desirous of being alone. She did not think it necessary to follow. Perhaps it might be as well that Nancy should have time to consider matters.
Rama, on duty outside her tent, caught her eye and then looked after the retreating figure.
“Yes, Rama,” Joan said. “Follow missie and see that she does not go to sleep in the sun. Take a rug and an umbrella with you.”
He understood. Joan sighed and dropped into her long canvas chair that raised her feet from the ground. She also had food for thought. If her brother was going to take a wife where did she come in? Her job was at an end. Once more she would be thrown upon her own resources, without an object in life. The prospect was not pleasant. Since she had come out to India she had been supremely happy.
Yet Evan’s marriage was not an event that should surprise her. It was a contingency which she had known might present itself. Such a pact as had been made between brother and sister was not binding. She herself might have been contemplating marriage. If, for instance, Captain Denning—— She checked the flow of her ruminations. They were wandering wide of the mark. Captain Denning was too ardent a sportsman to think of anything but his rifle.
She went back to Evan. If he was contemplating matrimony she must blame herself for sending him along the road. It was only under her guidance that he had mastered his reserve and shyness and had become intimate with the girls. If it was not Nancy it would soon be one of the others. There were seven or eight df them who would be quite ready to look with favour on the handsome well-set-up young Welshman if he made love to one or another. Out of the bevy she would sooner that it was Nancy than any of the others. Good-tempered warm-hearted Nancy would make a man an excellent wife.
Joan came to the wise conclusion that she must not interfere if she found that the trend of events was setting that way. But it was not without a bit of a heartache that she contemplated all that it would mean for herself.
The afternoon passed slowly. At four o’clock Nancy, followed at a respectful distance by the faithful Rama, returned to the camp. Joan threw down the book that had failed to hold her attention and shouted “Tea!”
It was ready under the tree where the lunch table had been spread. After tea Joan suggested a stroll, which would be better for them both than mooning about in the camp.
“I haven’t shown you half the pretty walks we have within easy reach of the camp,” she said.
“That would be rather nice, but first I must put my few things together. I shall have to make an early start to-morrow morning.”
“There’s no hurry. It’s a lovely ride down to the Ghaut road, shade all the way.”
“The car is to be there at nine so that I get in to lunch. It is wanted after lunch for something or other. That’s the worst of a family bus. I wish I had a little two-seater of my own.”
“It will take at least two hours, possibly more, to ride down to the road. It’s all more or less downhill and rather slow going. If you leave at half-past six you will have plenty of time to do the journey comfortably.”
Joan moved from the tea table, intending to return to her chair and book to wait till Nancy was ready for a stroll.
Nancy lingered. “Evan promised to ride part of the way with me,” she announced.
Joan glanced at her in surprise.
“I thought of coming with you myself. Evan is always desperately busy in the office all the morning unless by chance he has to go off somewhere on business.”
Nancy’s face fell. She did not look as pleased as she might have done at the offer of her friend’s company on a tiresome journey.
“Of course, if he has too much to do——”
“I couldn’t say for certain. He rarely talks of his cases.” Joan spoke hastily, repudiating all responsibility for her brother’s actions. “I don’t even know where he has gone to-day. He is most scrupulous about not allowing pleasure to interfere with his work, too scrupulous by half I sometimes think. Did he happen to mention where he was going when he walked to the stable?”
The colour crept into Nancy’s cheeks as she replied: “We were talking about something else.”
It was a little after five o’clock when Nancy rejoined Joan with the announcement that she had finished her packing. She might with truth have said her dreaming, for the rearrangement of her two suit-cases took but little time. Joan rose from her chair with the information that she was quite ready.
“Our last walk, I’m sorry to say. I wish you could have made it a week, Nancy.”
Perhaps Joan’s words were a little wanting in heartiness.
“I hoped that Mummie could have spared me longer but, with visitors coming, I must go back and do my bit. Which way are you walking?” asked Nancy.
“I don’t mind, east or west whichever you like. It’s all perfectly beautiful.”
“Could we go and meet Evan,” suggested Nancy. “He said he would be back without fail by sunset.”
“We don’t know in which direction he went,” objected Joan.
“If the syce has returned with the pony he might tell us,” said Nancy, whose wits were sharpened by the desire to rejoin her lover.
“To be sure! Rama! Go and ask the syce where the master went.”
Every member of the camp except the two “missies” had made it their business to find out the destination of his honour. Rama could tell them all about the master’s movements without seeking the syce.
“His honour has gone to see the road where the great ones passed,” he said. “I can show the way.”
They started, Rama leading. The path was a well-trodden track along which it was easy to walk. They talked of Nancy’s tournaments and the dances and gymkhanas of the station, events which Joan was missing, since she could not be in two places at once. They had been moving for about forty minutes when Rama stopped.
“Missie see clouds? I think thunderstorm coming.”
He pointed ahead to a group of heavy clouds that was settling over the outlying spurs in the south.
“It’s raining over there,” said Joan, more weather-wise than her friend. “I don’t think we shall get it here. All the same it would be as well to turn back.”
The sun had sunk behind the bank of cloud. A walk in the daylight was pleasant enough but after dark there were all sorts of obstacles to be considered. Moreover, Rama had brought no lantern. Nancy hung back.
“Let’s rest a minute or two.” She was disappointed at not seeing any sign of Llewellyn.
“We mustn’t stay long,” replied Joan, who divined the reason for Nancy’s need of a rest. “It will be dark in half an hour.”
They were obliged to quicken their steps towards the end of the journey. Rama ran forward and returned with one of the hurricane lanterns. They were not sorry to have a light on their path. Crawling things were beginning to emerge from every tuft of grass and herbage.
They prepared for dinner. The camp was illuminated as far as possible. The guarded lamps attracted every flying insect that the jungle produced. At half-past seven Ganjee came to Joan with the information that the master had not yet appeared. What was to be done about serving dinner?
“Wait a quarter of an hour.”
Ganjee looked disturbed.
“Master taking a long walk. Can’t tell——” He stopped and left her to infer the rest.
“You can’t tell—what?” she demanded.
“If his honour will be able to find the way. He took no lantern with him, and he went without a police peon.”
“He can find a constable at one of the villages. Or he can get one of the villagers to help him. The man would be more useful than a constable, if it was a question of finding the way through the jungle.”
Ganjee went back to the kitchen tent far from satisfied. It was known that his honour had looked down into the tiger’s ravine. If the demon spirit of revenge was roused—no one dared to put the consequences into words. Twenty minutes later the dinner bell sounded.
“Come along Nancy,” exclaimed Joan, who was hungry. “No use waiting for Evan any longer. He has been detained, held up somewhere probably by the shower.”
“Not out in the jungle, I hope,” observed Nancy, her face clouding with anxiety.
“No fear! Evan knows his way about better than to be caught like that! He is probably sheltering in one of the thanas. Or failing that there is always the headman’s house.”
Joan had no scruples in beginning dinner. Her brother had begged her never to wait for him: when he was out on business connected with his work, it was impossible to tell what delays might occur. He could not be bound by hours even at headquarters. Should he be unable to return in time for meals, the cook understood that the food had to be kept warm in the indispensable adjunct of every Indian kitchen, the hot-case.
The dinner was eaten almost in silence. Nancy, usually the liveliest of the party, had nothing to say. If Joan made an observation the other lost the drift of it or failed to hear it. She was listening for Evan’s voice and his footsteps, and she was wondering with a strong vein of real anxiety what had happened to detain him. He had been very positive about his return at sunset.
She recalled their broken conversation. He had been on the verge of a definite proposal of marriage but he had not advanced further than a declaration of love. This last was pleasant enough as a pastime when neither parties were serious, but in this instance both had advanced further than mere flirtation.
“It’s of no use sitting up for Evan,” said Joan, rousing herself out of an after-dinner drowsiness. “The air is getting cooler. We shall be better in our beds.”
“Won’t Evan be a little disappointed if there is no one to welcome him back?”
“Not he! Besides, to tell you the truth, it’s too late now for him to be tramping through the jungle alone and without a lantern. It would be madness.”
“Joan!” said Nancy, regarding her with rounded eyes. “Do you think he is safe?”
“Of course he is! Did you ever hear of a policeman losing himself or running his head into unnecessary danger? Believe me, Evan is safe. I won’t say that he is comfortable, spending the night in some stuffy little village police station or making the best of the accommodation offered by the headman.”
Nancy was obliged to be contented with this assurance, but she was far from satisfied. She had looked forward to a happy evening with Evan when she would have given him his answer.
A sudden suspicion crossed her brain as she crept into her sleeping-suit and snuggled under the blankets.
What if Evan had changed his mind? By keeping out of her way he could silently retreat from his compromised position. He had not asked her to marry him. This question, with its answer, must come before any engagement was possible.
A police superintendent may find it more convenient to follow his profession without the tie of a wife and family. She had learned from Joan that Evan was devoted to his work and up to the present had allowed nothing, even the most pressing of dances and games appointments, to interfere.
She turned and tumbled on the camp cot unable to sleep. The noises of the night seemed aggravated, and many of them were unaccountable, although the more experienced Joan might have interpreted them. An owl settled on the top of the tent. It slid down the sloping canvas roof on its claws, extending its wings and stiffening its fanlike tail to support itself. It threw itself off the eaves of the tent with a strangled shriek that echoed through the glade and was answered by its mate.
A wild pig searching for scraps of food pushed its nose under the base of the fly, which was securely fastened down by Rama. It sniffed and snorted and made the canvas walls quiver. Nancy at first took it for a tiger or leopard and nothing less. She ducked her head under the sheet, wondering if it would be safe to call to Joan, who was only a few feet away from her.
She gently breathed her name. Her more experienced friend was sound asleep, her mind completely at rest on the subject of wild beasts.
The wild pig discovered its mistake in searching for food round a sleeping-tent. It went off to the kitchen where, as most of the cooking had been done in the open, it had better luck.
The snuffling was followed by a curious rattling sound that conveyed nothing to Nancy’s mind but the passing of a child’s small stick along a line of railings. There were no railings in camp, and she could not account for it. If she searched the ground outside the next morning she might find a clue to the mystery in the shape of a porcupine’s quill.
She was falling off into an uneasy sleep when she was roused by an unearthly yelling. A pack of jackals had arrived to hunt for any scraps that might be left by their predecessors, the night owls, pigs, rats, jungle cats and other scavengers.
This time Joan was awakened. She lifted her head from the pillow and leaned on her elbow.
“Did those brutes wake you, Nancy?”
“Yes, but I’m not frightened. I know what they are. We have them round the bungalow at home sometimes.”
“Useful scavengers: they clear up after the cookboy. But I wish they would make a little less noise over their supper.”
At dawn a welcome tray of tea was brought. Rama opened the fly of the tent and let down a bamboo blind.
“Did the master come back last night?” called Joan to the peon.
“No, missie!”
“Tell Ganjee to get on with the bacon and eggs, and send word to the syces that we shall want both the ponies.”
Nancy had heard Rama’s reply to the question about Evan. She looked rather woe-begone.
“Aren’t you anxious about Evan, Joan?” she asked.
“Not in the least. It isn’t by any means the first time he has served me in this way. He has expressed his satisfaction because I have taken it so coolly. ‘My work comes first and you next,’ he says.”
“I wouldn’t like to be treated so casually,” said Nancy, in whose mind a vein of annoyance was beginning to make itself felt.
“I assure you that you would soon get used to it if you were in my place.”
They made a good breakfast. Joan, never forgetful of what she called the commissariat, cut some sandwiches and cake and filled a couple of thermos flasks with tea. Presently she pronounced that she was ready to start.
“I don’t see why you should be troubled to have a long ride for my sake,” said Nancy, who was beginning to show signs of contrariness. “If Evan had been here——”
“Won’t I do as well? I shall enjoy the ride down to the Ghaut road.”
“He promised——” grumbled Nancy.
“Never trust the promises of these Government employees out here. They come to India to earn and to work, and I can assure you that Government sees to it that they render a full account. It is equally careful to ensure that they are not overpaid. Doesn’t your father say the same?”
Nancy was busy settling herself in the saddle. She was riding Evan’s pony.
“How late does the judge work?” Joan demanded over her shoulder as she led the way.
“Very often till bed-time,” admitted her companion.
“He is lucky. He can think out his judgments at home. Evan’s work takes him in all directions, and very little of it can be done indoors.”
“Oh, well! if work comes before all things and nothing else matters, I mustn’t mind if he fails to keep his promise,” rejoined Nancy, her heart hardening in her disappointment.
They proceeded down the steep path single file. The way was slightly better than a game track, but it was not sufficiently wide to allow them to ride abreast. Conversation was not easy. They dropped into silence. While they were in the jungle they were fairly well shaded, but towards the juncture of the bridle path and the road, the forest trees were fewer and the undergrowth less thick. They had descended to a lower level and the atmosphere was distinctly warmer.
A surprise awaited them as they emerged from the forest and came out on the Ghaut road. Instead of the large touring car belonging to the judge, with its chauffeur uniformed in the traditional black and yellow, a neat little two-seater was drawn up in the shade of a wayside tree.
On their appearance Captain Denning jumped out and greeted them.
“I hope you’re not disappointed, Nancy. Your mother accepted my offer to meet you, as it set your car at liberty. I saw her last night at the club, and she told me you were returning. I’ll soon run you home.” He turned to Joan. “This is unexpected. I didn’t think you would be tempted to come down into the fringe of the low-country heat. I’m awfully glad to see you. I was wishing that I could get right up to the camp with my little car.”
“Not even a motor-bike could do it,” said Joan. “Evan is engaged in one of his innumerable cases, otherwise he would have been here instead of me.”
The coolies had come up with the luggage. Denning saw to the stowing away of the suit-cases and then looked at Nancy. Joan had jumped out of the saddle on arrival. She caught the glance.
“You’re not going off without having a bit of breakfast,” she said, as she opened the useful lunch-basket.
Denning was very happy helping Joan with the food. Packets of ham sandwiches, sausage rolls and other delicacies made an acceptable breakfast. Nancy seated herself in the car. She was recovering her spirits sufficiently to rally Denning with chaff.
“Shot any more ghostly tigers, Jack?” she asked.
“No. The Major has not been on the war-path again with his camera.”
“You had better tell him to come up to us and have another try,” said Joan.
“Are there any tigers about?” he asked, addressing her.
“There’s a splendid demon tiger I could show you,” put in Nancy.
“Oh! Where?”
“Above the camp. Mr. Llewellyn took me to see where it was to be found. It’s a spooky place.”
“It’s only on view after sunset,” added Joan. “And you must load your rifle with a silver bullet.”
Their little picnic was at an end and Nancy was impatient to be off.
“Come along, Jack. I shall drive off without you,” threatened Nancy.
“Shall I help you to mount, Miss Llewellyn?” asked Denning.
“No need to do that thanks. My syce will give me a leg up. Any message to Evan?” she asked of Nancy.
“Yes, tell the prize idiot that I’ll come to his funeral as soon as it can be arranged,” replied Nancy, with the modern extravagance of speech.
“Hallo! Have you and Llewellyn quarrelled, Nancy?” asked Denning, who was not deceived, however, into believing that a vendetta had been established between the two.
He stepped into the car and settled himself by Nancy’s side.
“Off you go, and my blessing goes with you,” cried Joan, and the car glided away.
She stood watching them. Nancy was leaning towards her companion. He was talking and laughing, already absorbed in telling her the latest joke at the club. Neither turned to look back, Denning because he was obliged to keep his eyes on the narrow road in front and Nancy because her soreness was already healed by the presence of another admirer. In spite of his devotion to sport and the exercise of his professional duties, he could find time to come and meet her without any difficulty.
Joan mounted and rode slowly back to camp.
Llewellyn had done his best to start early in the afternoon, but found it a little difficult to tear himself away from Nancy’s side. The love-making had come easily. It was less embarrassing than he had supposed it would be. Perhaps if Nancy had been less amenable, or if he had been obliged to share her smiles with other admirers, he might not have been so happy.
He was serious enough in his intentions, whatever she might have been, and he fully intended coming to a definite understanding with her after dinner that evening.
The fact was that this new attitude of mind was in reality due to Joan herself, Joan the last person to dream of bringing about a change in his ménage. She made her brother so completely happy with her good-natured care and companionship that he was beginning to think he might improve the situation by exchanging a sister for a wife.
He had no fear that Nancy would make objections to his manner of life. If she was not satisfied with the climate on the west coast he could ask for a transfer. There were other parts of the Presidency where the damp heat and luxuriant vegetation could be exchanged for almost a desert dryness. At any headquarters society would be much the same and the attendant gaiety similar. Camping, too, was not always necessary. In some parts inspection duty could be done by car over good roads. Wherever he eventually settled he would take care to give his wife a good time and a fair share of his attention.
These were some of his thoughts as the pony carried him at a quick walk towards the spot he intended to visit, the old elephant road where Maxwell had seen the herd. He had a good path for some distance over which the pony made no difficulty in passing. Then as it became rougher and steeper he felt that it would be safer and less hard on his animal, sturdy as it was, if he walked. He sent the pony back with the syce and continued his journey alone.
Llewellyn climbed the steep shoulder of the hill and descended on the opposite side into a ravine. He plodded along by the side of a stream till he reached a region of cliffs and ramparts of rocks. Terrific forces must have been at work in prehistoric ages to make such havoc of the geological strata. The rocks were split into caves and crevices and were broken in other places and heaped chaotically into gigantic rockeries impossible to pass. Ferns with fronds of five and six feet in length grew riotously wherever they could find foothold.
He reached the ridge that formed one side of the gorge beyond which stood the village. The air was as clear as crystal. In the early afternoon sunlight, every tree and slab of rock showed colour and form as if it was but a quarter of a mile away.
It was along the top of this ridge that from a distance Maxwell had seen the herd of wild elephants pass. It must have been a noble sight. But the inspector had no eye for nature. He regarded the appearance of the animals as a nuisance. The sight of them had only served as an irritant to the temper of the energetic police official.
Llewellyn recognised the old track. Instead of going down to the stream and crossing by the stepping-stones, he continued along the top of the ridge and followed the line of the elephants’ road. For ages in the remote past the great ones must have used it in their travels in search of food and water. In places the forest had tried to repair the damage done by those huge feet. Trees had sprung up here and there, sending their crowns of foliage into the blue of heaven. In many places only a low scrubby vegetation had succeeded in pushing its way up from the hardened earth.
Yes, there was the old road plain enough to be seen, a track that would never be entirely obliterated. It was traced and made without the help of the engineer. Long before man appeared to claim the earth as his own, the founders of all footways had laid out the great trunk roads that followed the high grounds and avoided the swampy valleys. Primitive man gladly availed himself of the work of his predecessors, the mastodon and elephant, until the engineers arrived to make shortcuts and replace stepping-stones and fords with bridges.
Llewellyn followed the track up for a mile or more, scrutinising the ground closely. If elephants had actually passed that way within the last forty-eight hours they must have left traces of their passage, trampled bushes, the large round impressions of their feet, broken branches where they had snatched a mouthful of fodder on their way. The clearest and most undeniable proof of their presence should be the droppings, which could not be mistaken for those of any other animals.
Llewellyn was puzzled. Not a single sign could he find of any one of these evidences.
As he had decided to walk back to camp, a distance of eight or nine miles by the nearest path, he felt that he ought not to extend his tramp. He glanced at his watch. He had two hours and a half to do it by sunset. Ten minutes rest before starting might be taken. He was not anxious to question the headman of the village. No admission would be made that would incriminate either the Lumbadees or the villagers. It was just as well not to rouse their suspicions and put them on their guard. The Lumbadees would take the same route on some future occasion if they were not alarmed.
He seated himself on a boulder from which he had a good view of the gorge. While he rested he lighted a cigarette and gave his mind entirely to the problem of the vision Maxwell had described. He was beginning to look upon it as a vision since he had examined the track. Yet the inspector had declared that he had seen the elephants with his own eyes. Not only had he and his men seen them, but they had heard them as well. No one, who has once listened to the great ones enjoying their liberty in their own jungles undisturbed, can forget the indescribable sounds that without any deafening noise fill the air. Maxwell could not have been mistaken. Yet it was most difficult to reconcile the story with the evidences of his own senses to-day. He threw away the end of his cigarette and rose to begin his long tramp campwards.
Suddenly a brain-wave startled him. Maxwell had mentioned that he had encountered Govind just before reaching the foot of the ridge. The old man had offered to guide them into the gorge. As they were following him he had stopped and pointed out the elephants. They could be seen dimly through the mist. Were the Kuruva’s powers sufficient to raise visions?
Llewellyn had heard of such things. There was the incident of the filming of the tiger when the old man had promised the major that he should see it. He had not promised Denning that he should see it or kill it, but only that the visualisation of it should be granted to the man with the camera.
Govind, the Kuruva! He would have something to say to the old man when next they met.
“The old scamp! I wonder what the Lumbadees gave him for hoodwinking my inspector,” said Llewellyn to himself, as he trudged along. “And what would Maxwell say if he suspected that a hypnotic trick had been played upon him? He would not believe me. Not for a moment would he credit that his imagination had been led astray by jungle occultism.”
Llewellyn determined to keep the suspicion to himself. He had no wish to increase Maxwell’s animosity towards Govind by suggesting it.
His attention was needed to pick his way. A stumble over an embedded rock scattered his thoughts and concentrated them on his track. Boulders, loose stones, fallen branches, thorn bushes and beds of rank fern had to be passed. If he tried to make a short cut and left the path, he found himself knee-deep in vegetation, his feet slipping from rounded surfaces into ruts and holes worn by torrential rains. They afforded him no foothold and put a constant strain on his ankles. He must follow the beaten path such as it was however much it curved. In the end it gave him least trouble.
A mass of cloud was rolling up from the south-west. Round heads of dense vapour rose above the shoulders and ridges of the hills indicating that he might expect a short sharp shower before the sun actually set. At any minute the mist might condense overhead. Storms on the Western Ghauts did not “come up” as in Europe. They gathered on the spot.
Llewellyn glanced round with a weather eye and decided that he might be compelled before long to find temporary shelter if he did not wish to get wet through. He was still some way from the camp and he was too far from the village to go back to it. It was impossible to hurry. A sprained ankle or an awkward fall might be the result. The old Indian saying recurred to his mind. “Haste is of the devil. Only bad people run.”
A roll of thunder warned him that rain was close at hand. With a suddenness common to the tropics, the clouds intensified overhead, and a few drops of heavy rain pattered down on the broad leaves of the wild ginger.
He was passing by the foot of a cliff that jutted out of the jungle. He glanced along the rugged wall in search of a fissure or crevice into which he might squeeze himself till the storm was over. Thirty or forty minutes would be its duration, perhaps less, and then he would have to quicken his steps to reach the camp before dark.
He caught sight of an opening through which he thought he could pass. It was at a slightly lower elevation than the spot where he stood. A bank sloped down to it and offered an easy means of reaching the shelter. Fissures, crevices and caves were innumerable in the cliffs. Many of them were hidden by curtains of creepers. This one, however, was clear of hanging vegetation.
A vivid flash and crackling thunder opened the skies. A plump of heavy rain sent him running at top speed. He reached the opening relieved to find that it was the entrance to a cave big enough to protect three or four men from the rain. In front of the entrance was a natural barrier, a wedge of rock that served as a low wall. He placed his hand on the wall and vaulted over.
It proved to be as he had supposed, a recess with a roof of varying height and it was water-tight. An uneven floor sloped steeply upwards and was lost in the darkness. Behind him the rain fell with tropical violence.
His gratification at having found shelter was changed into a paralysing horror. At his intrusion a low hissing resounded on his right and on his left. He glanced down and caught sight of two snakes. One was coiled. The other moved sluggishly over the very spot his feet had just touched as he entered. A third showed itself, lying close under the low wall. It reared its head as though prepared to dispute his right of way. They were apparently enjoying the dry warmth of their retreat and were as much startled by his appearance as he was by theirs.
His first instinct was to make a precipitate exit. This was not possible with the reptiles in the position they had assumed. It was nothing but their intense surprise that had saved him from being bitten as he entered. Now that they were warned they were alert and ready to adopt the offensive. To have lessened the distance between himself and them would have been sheer madness.
The snake that was coiled lifted its head from its iridescent curves and shot out a hostile tongue. The second lay in a serpentine line barring the way. The third was not as quiescent as its fellows. It trailed its length across the space before the opening, prepared to adopt the offensive on the slightest provocation. Now and then it raised its head and swayed it from side to side while it gave forth a sound like steam beginning to escape from a safety valve. It is the only voice, if such it can be termed, permitted to the creature cursed from the beginning by God and man.
Llewellyn was aware that the serpent cannot strike at any object that is on a higher level than its head. But some possess the power of springing. The spine and muscles of the body are stiffened and contracted till the snake can hurl itself forward through the air and fasten its fangs into the enemy. The aim is true and never fails. This ability to spring has given rise to the belief among Indians that the snake has feet hidden under its scales.
He moved quickly towards the recess, passing warily up the sloping floor which ended in a shelving wall. How many more snakes were taking cover there, he wondered. The absence of further hissing reassured him. He trusted that he would be allowed to have undisputed possession of the back of the cave, airless and dusty as it was. He climbed up to a ledge that was raised about three feet from the floor and seated himself with his back to the wall.
To his intense relief the snakes showed no inclination to follow him. As soon as he was out of their way their aggressiveness disappeared. One of them lowered its head and subsided into its coil. Another became quiet and still.
The third was more restless. It was disinclined to leave the position it had assumed and continued to sway its head in a threatening manner for a time. Gradually confidence was apparently restored to a certain extent. It lowered its head and became quiet, but it retained its position, stretching in a curved length before the entrance as though it was determined to guard against a second intrusion. Llewellyn recognised this one as a cobra.
Outside the cave the rain poured down. Heavy as it was he would infinitely have preferred the deluge to the strange company in which he found himself. The lightning flashed across the sky from all points of the compass. A little later the storm ceased as suddenly as it began.
It was past five o’clock. Already he was getting very tired of his ridiculous imprisonment. He had plenty of time to examine the cave. It faced west. The entrance was a long perpendicular fissure extending high up in the face of the cliff. The snakes had their own entrance and exit by a crevice that extended down to the floor.
He was uncomfortably aware that the process of digestion with the species is lengthy and takes some hours. How soon would these loathsome reptiles require more food? How soon would they wake or come out of their lethargy and go in search of the frogs and small mammals on which they subsisted? In short how long was he to be kept a prisoner?
He moved on his elevated seat, intending to slip down to the floor and stretch his cramped limbs. If the snakes remained quiet he might make a dash perhaps for the entrance and vault out as he had so recklessly vaulted in.
A low hiss warned him that his movements were not only observed but resented. The coiled reptile raised its head, but lowered it again when no further action was taken on the part of the intruder.
The liveliest of his guardians was the cobra that had extended itself in front of the entrance. Its curves quivered throughout the length of its body. The head was lifted a foot and a half and again it breathed forth threatenings in a prolonged hiss.
The reason for its animosity lay in the fact that it had a clutch of eggs hidden somewhere in the cave. They were so placed that the warm rays of the sun could reach them through the aperture. At his entrance Llewellyn had approached nearer to the precious clutch than was approved of. He was not to be allowed to repeat the offence.
He climbed back to his perch. It was hard and uncomfortable. The wall of rock at his back was rugged, too much so to lean against. His seat was equally rough, with jagged points and broken rock. He pulled out his handkerchief and used it as a duster, flicking away the loose fragments that had fallen from the upper part of the crevice.
Again the ominous sound of disapproval fell on his ears. It continued just as long as he flourished his handkerchief and moved about. He settled down once more and resigned himself to the inevitable. His efforts had not been very successful in relieving the discomforts of the position. The question that was exercising his mind now was whether he would be obliged to spend the night in such unpleasant company.
He had finished the food that he had brought with him—it was very little—and his flask contained about a wineglass of whiskey. This he carefully reserved. It was the only thing he possessed in the form of a remedy should he be bitten. It was a palliative rather than a remedy, and he sincerely trusted that he would not be called upon to depend on it. He counted his cigarettes, fifteen all told. Fortunately he was not a great smoker. They would satisfy him during the night, should he be detained as long, but he hoped that his release would be effected before many hours had passed.
His release! How was it to be accomplished?
There were two means. One was by the departure of the snakes. The other was by their destruction. But how were they to be driven off the field? How were they to be destroyed?
The clouds cleared away with wonderful swiftness, and the sun poured its rays into the cave as it descended towards the horizon. It was not far from its setting now. The sloping light penetrated into the farthest recesses, touching the narrowing walls from the floor almost to the dusty roof.
He scanned the place closely in search of more snakes but could see none. One important fact he was able to ascertain. There was no other outlet to the cave but the opening by which he had entered. He caught sight of colonies of insects above his head, beetles, hairy spiders with legs of abnormal length, and long scaly centipedes. They scuttled upwards into the dim heights out of reach of their deadly enemies.
The light faded as the sun went down and with approaching dusk his heart sank. Each hour that passed strengthened the conviction that he would have to remain a prisoner some hours longer, probably till daylight. Twilight is short in the tropics and the night marches on apace as soon as the sun is gone. It was getting on towards seven o’clock. In less than an hour it would be quite dark. Dinner would be waiting. Worse still Nancy would be also waiting.
What would she be thinking of him? He had promised faithfully to return. Would she accuse him of breaking faith with her? If only he could send a reassuring message to explain his absence. He remembered that she was leaving the next morning early and he had proposed to ride down to the Ghaut road with her. Even if he were released at dawn he could not reach the camp before she started. He did his best to reconcile himself to the situation, but he was not happy over it.
And the time passed slowly. Various sounds of the forest life reached the cave. He recognised them. In the distance a leopard roared. It was answered by another in the jungle not far distant. Night birds with harsh cries called to their mates, winging their way down the ravines in search of prey. The large flying-foxes shrieked as they quarrelled over the fruits of the forest. Through it all came the murmur of the stream at the bottom of the ravine. Its voice altered by the fall of rain. At times it was strangely like a medley of human voices, some more dominant than others, all more or less melancholy in the stillness of the night.
At midnight Llewellyn realised that he was hungry and thirsty. He was becoming increasingly stiff and sore from his cramped position. He turned the light of his torch upon the spot where he had last seen the snakes. They had not altered their positions. The two larger were coiled. The cobra lay at full length in curves before the opening. Hisses greeted the light, low but threatening.
Sleep was out of the question. As he sat hour after hour the thought of Nancy and her annoyance faded away, obliterated by the one subject that seemed to dominate all others. How was he to be rescued? Could the snakes be driven away or destroyed?
Not by himself, unarmed as he was.
The reptile most to be feared was that which showed anxiety over its clutch of eggs. The other two were sluggish and inclined to be quiet. Possibly they might be induced to remove themselves if he could frighten them. But he never heard of the serpent tribe showing fear of anything but the cry of the snake eagle. Inside the cave they were safe from their worst enemy.
It was the third snake he feared most, the cobra. It would maintain its offensive attitude and die at its post rather than forsake its eggs. It was the most formidable and would be the most difficult to get rid of. A sportsman with a gun might kill all three from the entrance. But how was he to be summoned?
Llewellyn had no means of communicating with Maxwell, who was a good shot. The cave was out of the beat of the constables. He might call till doomsday without being heard by any creature but the wild animals of the forest. A hillman picking up firewood might catch the sound of his voice but it would never occur to the man of the jungle that it was a human being calling for help. He would attribute the sound to a demon of the forest seeking to do mischief to its enemy, man.
Suddenly Llewellyn’s thoughts centred on the Kuruva. Govind had a mysterious power over every creature that lived in the jungle. He had the reputation of being able to control and subdue them. Among his other accomplishments he was said to be able to charm snakes and make them dance and sway about to the tune of his pipes.
If only the old man were within hail! If only his own call could reach the Kuruva’s ears!
But Llewellyn knew that it was hopeless. He had not seen him in camp the last day or two. He had probably gone down to one of the towns in the low country to sell his honey and herbs. Or he might have retired to his tribal village in the depths of the jungle to superintend the wedding of his grand-daughter, for which the old man was saving up his money.
The more he pondered over the predicament that he was in, the more confirmed he was in his belief that Govind, and Govind alone, could deal with the snakes and find a way to release him from what seemed a very serious position.
Llewellyn’s thoughts wandered round the subject with increasing desperation. He could think of no means by which it would be possible to communicate with the Kuruva and send out an S.O.S. If only he had the secret of some kind of wireless that was independent of mechanism!
But that was a thing of the future. Already the scientists had arrived at the fact that the human body was a receiver. Might it not be proved a transmitter, capable of issuing a call as well as receiving it? How was the mysterious connection to be set up without a microphone? Would an intense concentration of the will accomplish communication? Would the time ever come when it would be possible to make a spiritual call?
Why should he not try here and now?
“Govind! Govind! Govind!”
He laughed rather bitterly at his own childishness. Yet something urged him to repeat the call. He did not attempt to voice it. He concentrated his intellectual powers by an effort of will and sent out his S.O.S.
He was a Welshman. The nation, small as it is, has a distinct temperament that is different from the Saxon or Latin. It is difficult to say from what remote ancestors the Celts inherit their psychic attributes. They are not always aware that they possess them. The powers be dormant until circumstances call them into activity. Even then the individual may not know that he is in touch with a spiritual world.
“Govind! Govind! Govind!”
The hours passed and it was with intense relief that he watched the patch of sky visible through the long narrow entrance grow grey with the coming dawn. It might not mean immediate release, but with the growing day he had reason to hope that some search would be made for him by his men when they realised that he was missing.
As soon as it was light enough the firewood gatherers would be coming out into the jungle. The hillmen were few and far between in the vast forests of the Western Ghauts but it was possible, just possible that a call for help would be heard. If they could understand his peril they could rescue him. With long pliant bamboos they could beat down and slay the snakes without much difficulty—if only they did not mistake his call for the cry of a forest demon.
Llewellyn listened for the notes of the birds. The twittering began suddenly as if in reply to a signal. Pheasant-crows called from the ridges; the Malabar thrush whistled its sweet song over the rushing water; the pigeons sent forth their gentle cooing from the glossy foliage; the monkeys barked and chattered as they issued from their roosting-places in the big forest trees to proceed on their daily quest for food.
Presently there fell on his ears another note that made itself heard above the undertones of the torrent and the chorus of the jungle. It did not belong to the forest although it was in harmony with its many voices.
Llewellyn’s heart beat more quickly as he caught the strains. It was the thin melancholy wail of pipes, such as Pan himself might have produced, as he sought the sunlight and greeted the coming day in company with his birds, butterflies and beasts. The tuneful notes rose and fell, sometimes dying away like a gentle uncertain wind echoing through the branches of an old tree. Only a human being could produce such strains.
Llewellyn was abruptly roused from the lethargy of intense fatigue and became alert. He shouted, sending out the long far-reaching call of the woodman which he uses to keep in touch with his fellows as he wanders in search of dead wood.
The pipes came nearer. He was on his feet now, standing on the sloping floor waiting to seize the first opportunity of flight.
The snakes were disturbed. They lifted their heads with the familiar swaying movement and listened to the only voice a serpent cannot resist.
Closer it came, the god Pan, droning his thin threads of harmony on the reeds.
A shadow darkened the opening. Llewellyn’s heart gave a throb of relief as he recognised the one man who could help him. Govind stood on the other side of the low wall which barred the entrance. He looked down at the three snakes.
“Stay quite still, sir. Wait till I have drawn them away,” he said in a curiously quiet voice.
He continued his piping, retiring a few yards from the cave. Two of the snakes stirred, slowly drawing themselves out of their coils to their full length. They moved almost imperceptibly and, passing through some opening, disappeared from Llewellyn’s sight.
The cobra remained on guard and for some time turned a deaf ear to the call of the snake charmer. The Indian says that the snake cannot hear and see at the same time. Its eyes were on the standing figure at the far end of the cave. Some instinct prompted Llewellyn to resume the position he had occupied during the night. The action restored its confidence. Its attention was diverted and the music began to have its effect. Rippling quivers ran down the length of its prismatic body and its head was once again lowered.
The Kuruva retreated, walking slowly away. The sound of the pipes was dying in the distance when the snake moved. Again the music approached slowly. The notes gave forth strange cadences composed of half and quarter tones. It was mysteriously alluring and had a language of its own.
The snake made some serpentine curves towards the crevice through which the others had disappeared. It entered the hole. Then it stopped leaving only nine or ten inches of its tail visible.
This was his opportunity. Llewellyn took it. With a sudden rush he bounded to the entrance and vaulted over the wall.
“How did you know?” asked Llewellyn, as he joined Govind.
“Did not your honour call me?”
“I called after I heard your pipes.”
“Soon after midnight your honour called me by name.”
Llewellyn did not reply. Govind added:
“And having heard the call of the master this poor old man obeyed.”
Llewellyn stood for a minute or so regarding rescuer. The old man’s words had startled him. His thoughts went back to the midnight hour when he had frantically cast around for possible means of escape from his perilous position. They had been concentrated in some incomprehensible manner on the old man. He had not spoken aloud. Of that he was convinced. But he had made an appeal in some psychic fashion for help, and he had received it.
He was dimly aware that when he summoned Govind to his rescue he had exerted some unknown power of the mind, an ability to reach forward into an unrecognised field of mental activity that was veiled under the grossness of the physical body.
The experience was startling and inexplicable. It gave rise to a host of enquiries which could not be answered. A long inheritance had endowed the Hindu seer with certain powers, of whose quality and origin the man himself was profoundly ignorant. They were inherited like the primitive worship of the serpent, a cult prompted by instinct rather than by reason.
The Kuruva, whose primitive mind has not been overlaid and stifled by education, was still able to exercise his curious mental abilities. The man of the present day, the modern product of education and culture, had lost the art. The faculties might still be there but they were latent: the power to exert them was atrophied.
The eyes of the Kuruva glittered like those of the snakes which Llewellyn had disturbed, with this difference that the expression in Govind’s eyes was devoid of malevolence. It was in their watchfulness that they resembled those of the wild creatures.
After his sleepless vigil Llewellyn was not his normal self. His imagination was playing tricks with him and his brain seemed to be hypersensitive to every impression. As he gazed at the Kuruva he thought he could detect an expression on his face that bore a vague likeness to the serpent. Could it be possible that a forked tongue was faintly visible between the dark lips of the old man?
He pulled himself together with an effort and reminded himself that the cult of the serpent was peculiar to the people of the west coast. Many of the tribes worship and propitiate snakes. They claim to have them under control and they tolerate their presence about their houses. They feed them with milk and fowls’ eggs. Possibly the snakes know their benefactors and refrain from harming them. It is believed that to kill a snake will bring bad luck and rouse the enmity of its fellows.
Europeans never spare the serpent tribe. They slay snakes at every opportunity. The Indian fears retribution and does his best to avert the evil by cremating the body with certain death ceremonies accorded to a human being.
It needed no power of divination on the part of Govind to be aware that during those long hours of the night, the police master must have ardently desired the death of his jailers. It would have been effected if Llewellyn had possessed the means, a gun or a long staff with a ferrule at the end of it. The gods of the serpent species had saved his honour from imperilling his life in any such attempt.
It was suddenly borne in upon Llewellyn as he gazed at the Kuruva that the effect of the long fast was making itself felt. He would do well to get back to camp. A bath and some food would banish visions that an exhausted brain was conjuring up before an unbalanced judgment.
“How far are we from camp?” he asked.
“Two and a half hours, your honour. More if the going is slow.”
“It will be slower than usual to-day I fancy, for I am very tired.”
Llewellyn began to walk onwards. Govind did not follow.
“Aren’t you coming, old man?” he asked turning in his stride and looking back.
“I wait to speak to the snakes. They must be told why master went into the cave.”
“You can explain that it was because of the rain. Are they annoyed at my entering the cave without asking their permission?”
“Can’t tell, your honour,” replied the old man seriously. “It will be better if I speak. Then they will not lie in wait to attack another day.”
Llewellyn received the explanation solemnly. He knew better than to laugh at the superstitions of the people among whom his work lay.
“Say I’m sorry I disturbed them. I won’t do it again. Come to my office to-morrow morning and I will give you a present.”
He walked on and left Govind standing near the cave. Evan was barely out of sight of his prison when he heard the melancholy wail of the Pan-pipes. If he had seen the pooja by which the snakes were propitiated, he might have had a glimpse of the far past with its ancient worship, the origin of which has long since been lost in bygone ages.
It was a simple ritual involving neither doctrine nor philosophy: it was a ritual that was founded on superstition. It was and still is offered as nothing more nor less than propitiation to a stronger force than that possessed by the worshippers.
Govind chose a space of ground that had a small pretence to being level. It was in front of the entrance to the cave. He smoothed it to the best of his ability and plucked it free from weeds and bushy growths. It was not more than a few feet square.
The surface was stamped down until it was sufficiently level to receive an impression with the thumbnail. He traced on the ground the rough outline of two snakes intertwined. Gathering a few green leaves from a bush that was carefully selected and a handful of the stalks of grass, he arranged them in a crude pattern round the impression of the snakes. From his pocket-bag he brought out a brown mass of coarse treacly sugar the size of a walnut and placed it at the head of the intertwined snakes.
All through the performance of his ritual the pipes were used. He kept them going with one hand while he employed the other to manipulate his votive offering.
When all was finished he laid aside his primitive instrument and prostrated himself before the cave. He was not aware if the snakes had returned. He knew that they were near their retreat and could hear the notes of the reeds. His feet were extended at full length behind him so that his knees touched the earth and his great toes supported his legs. His hands were spread upon the ground so that they could carry the weight of his chest. He bent his head forward till his forehead rested on the improvised platform. It was the very ancient obeisance of the East, in which the head, hands and feet come in contact with the earth.
Strange words fell from his lips. They were not spoken on behalf of himself. It was for the police master that he pleaded, the white man who had been kind to him and did not hunt him away from the camp with rough words as if he were nothing better than a pariah dog.
Did Palaeolithic man propitiate the forces of nature, visible and invisible, in a similar manner in the dim ages of the past? Did he perform his pooja with the same confidence and go on his way with the comfortable assurance that he had done his best and the result must be left to fate?
Govind rose to his feet and stood before the cave. A slight movement near the crevice told him that the snakes were returning to their shelter. He tucked away his betel-bag in a fold of his loin-cloth where his money was also hidden. He brought the palms of his hands together, lifted them to his forehead and turned away. The pooja was over. He slung his pipes over his shoulder and turned into the jungle, taking a different track than that followed by Llewellyn. The cave was forsaken with a light heart. He had rendered the reptiles their due. In return they would keep faith with him and wreak no vengeance on the careless intruder.
Llewellyn reached the camp between eight and nine in the morning. Ganjee met him with the usual stolidity of the Indian domestic, asking no questions but waiting silently for orders. The man showed no surprise at the long absence of his master and no curiosity as to the reason for it.
“My bath, boy, and my breakfast after it,” said Llewellyn wearily.
Ganjee went quickly to the kitchen tent and gave the necessary order for the heating of the water. He returned in less than five minutes with a cup of beef essence which Llewellyn received gratefully.
It was not until he found himself at the breakfast table, with an appetite that was fast recovering itself as each dish appeared, that he made any enquiries. The information he received was only what he expected. The two missies had risen early, had breakfasted and ridden off towards the Ghaut road.
As soon as Llewellyn had done justice to the bacon and eggs and other welcome dishes, he went to the office tent. On the table lay the postbag waiting for him to unlock. His eye searched the place for another communication. He thought and hoped that Nancy had left a few lines for him. Even if it had been only what she would have termed with her habitual exaggeration “a lurid telling-off,” with a threat never to speak to him again, it would have been preferable to silence. He must wait till Joan returned. From her he would learn the best and the worst, and how Nancy had taken his failure to keep his word.
He glanced at his letters that had come by the post. They could be left unanswered for the present. Sleep was what he wanted and what he must have. He flung himself down in his long canvas chair, and in a minute or so was in a deep dreamless sleep, the slumber he should have had twelve hours ago.
It was midday before Joan returned. She had not hurried her pony on its journey, which was mostly up hill. Rama met her with the information that the master had returned. He had bathed and breakfasted and was now in his chair asleep.
“Let his honour rest and see that he isn’t disturbed. Do you know what it was that detained him?”
“His honour did not say.”
“No sign of an accident?”
“None that we have seen.”
“Tell Ganjee to have lunch ready at the usual time.”
The camp appeared dull and quiet without Nancy. Joan could not detach her thoughts from her friend. The vision as she had last seen her, leaning towards Denning and already to all intents and purposes deep in an animated conversation, was haunting and disturbing to her peace of mind. Why should she care if they were a little more than friendly? There was nothing between herself and Captain Denning. A few hours ago she had allowed the thought of Nancy’s predilection for Evan to trouble her. Now it was Denning. And somehow there was a sharper sting in the thought of Nancy’s association in this direction than in Evan’s.
Joan was astonished at the rapidity with which the change had taken place. No sooner had Jack appeared on the scene than Evan was forgotten. And there was no mistake about Nancy’s attitude. So occupied had she been that she had almost forgotten to say good-bye to Joan. At the last moment a few words of farewell were spoken. The usual expressions of thanks were said, but before the perfunctory little speeches were made, Nancy was plunging into chaff and gossip with her latest companion. She was demanding news of the station as if she had been absent for four weeks instead of four days. She was as much absorbed in the personality of Jack Denning as if he belonged to her. He might have been her exclusive property.
“No!” cried Joan’s inner voice. “No! he is not her exclusive property—not yet!”
It was nearly two o’clock before Joan and her brother sat down to lunch. He was rested and refreshed by his sleep. It was Joan who showed signs of fatigue, weariness of mind rather than of body. She pulled herself together and gave her attention entirely to her brother. Perhaps her own feelings had roused a spirit of sympathy for him. She demanded a full account of all that had happened since he left the camp on the previous day. He told her and gave a graphic description of his unpleasant vigil during the night. She was no lover of snakes and listened to the story with horror.
“I wonder how you escaped being bitten,” she said when he had ended.
“So do I,” he responded. “I kept very still, as still as I could, considering how uncomfortable I was.”
“How did Govind find you, planted as you were in the depths of the jungle?”
“I was not far from the path that leads to Vittikul, the village in the gorge.”
“All the same I should like to know how the old man discovered you.”
Llewellyn did not reply immediately. When he did it was to ask another question.
“Do you happen to know if Govind came here last night and made any enquiries of the servants?”
“I heard nothing of it if he did. He may have met the syce as he was bringing back the pony.”
“Ah, yes, that was it probably,” said Evan.
He was conscious that he believed differently, but speech is given to hide the thoughts, and Llewellyn made use of it in this case. The old man had declared with no uncertainty that he had heard the call, the voiceless summons sent out at midnight, and that he had recognised it as a command and obeyed it. His presence at the cave at such an opportune hour could not have been accidental. If Govind had been wandering in the jungle searching for honey, he would not have been there without his honey-gathering pots and ladder. If his quest had been firewood he would have carried his jungle axe and a hank of rope. Why had he brought his Pan-pipes? It was very rarely that Llewellyn had seen him in the character of a snake-charmer.
The assistant superintendent of police put aside the mystery of his timely deliverance for future consideration. He was anxious to hear news of Nancy and to find out from his sister without giving himself away how matters stood.
“Tell me about your ride, Joan. I am afraid you found it rather hot going so far down the hill.”
“Not so bad,” she replied cheerfully. “But it’s much fresher and cooler up here.”
“Was—did Nancy seem sorry to leave the hills?”
“She didn’t say so.”
“It was a bit of bad luck that I wasn’t able to keep faith with her. I promised that I would see her to the road. If she had expressed a wish that I should do it, I would have driven her down to her mother’s house.”
“She did not mention the subject,” remarked Joan indifferently.
“All the same she might have been disappointed.”
“I don’t think she was.”
“Oh, well! it is satisfactory to know that she was not annoyed, as she might very well have been.”
He did not sound particularly happy over it.
“Nancy is a good-natured girl,” said Joan in defence of her friend. “She is also sensible enough to be convinced that nothing but dire necessity would make you break your word.”
“I am glad that she was not inconvenienced by my failure.”
There was an entire absence of gladness in his tone as he spoke which almost brought a smile to Joan’s lips.
“She had me instead of you as a companion. You need not pity her,” his sister protested.
“Of course! It was good of you to take my place. I suppose there was no hitch about the car?”
“It didn’t matter as it happened,” replied Joan rather obscurely. “The judge’s car was wanted for another errand and Mrs. Kingsbury arranged with Captain Denning to meet Nancy and drive her back.”
This time it was Evan who was not pleased. He could not know that Mrs. Kingsbury was innocent of being the mainspring of the movement. Denning himself had offered his services and had persuaded Nancy’s mother to accept them.
Llewellyn was silent. When he next spoke it was to ask some trivial question about the ponies. They finished lunch, and Evan lighted his cigarette. Joan was also preparing to leave the table.
“Was Nancy satisfied with the arrangement?” he asked as his sister was turning away.
“Being met by Captain Denning? Quite, rather pleased than otherwise. Instead of having a long drive by herself, she had the company of a friend who is evidently an old favourite.”
Evan made no comment and she went on with her remarks. She was unconsciously speaking out her thoughts, satisfying her own perturbed spirit rather than trying to pour balm on his.
“Nancy and Captain Denning have so much in common in their tournaments and social amusements that they must be chums. They partner each other at golf and lawn-tennis, and I know they dance together a good deal. She has told me that his step suits hers and he grumbles dreadfully, she says, if she gives her dances to anyone else.”
Llewellyn rose from the chair into which he had dropped to smoke his cigarette.
“So that’s that,” he said, speaking more to himself than his sister. It closed down his little romance, and he determined to think no more about it. A sigh escaped him as he reconciled himself to the inevitable. “I must go and attend to my letters. Have you anything for the post?”
“There’s no great hurry, Evan. We have missed to-day’s mail,” she replied with a faint hope that he would linger. She had no one else but her brother with whom she could chat, and she would have been glad to escape her own company a little longer. But Evan was in no humour to stop and talk. He had extracted from her all the news she could tell him, and it was painful to pursue the subject.
“Post or no post, I must deal with the business lying on my table.”
He strolled away to the office. Joan, left to herself, settled in the shade of one of the big trees of the glade and did her best to become absorbed in a book. The morning ride had been a sufficient outing for the day. The ponies had also been exercised enough and needed a rest as well as herself. She gazed after the retreating figure of her brother.
“Poor old Evan! I am afraid his wings were singed a bit,” she said to herself. “It doesn’t do to let oneself go too easily.” Some minutes later she added, as if it was the corollary of a long train of thought, “Nancy is too young to know her mind, and as for Jack-his head is too full of sport to have room in it for anything else.”
Govind presented himself at the office silently like a dim shadow. He stood patiently waiting till the master should look up from his writing.
“Oh!” ejaculated Llewellyn. In response the Kuruva gave a soft cough. “You have come as I asked.”
The other grunted his assent. The two regarded each other a few seconds without further speech.
“It was as well that you turned up when you did, old father of the forest,” Llewellyn said at last.
Govind wagged his head in agreement. He knew even better than the Englishman that any attempt at escape in the face of the cobra on guard over its clutch of eggs would have met with disaster.
“I was getting very hungry and tired,” Llewellyn continued.
“Perhaps your honour was also angry,” suggested the Kuruva.
“Most likely. I had reason to be, held up for nothing at all in that stuffy cave.”
“The snakes know,” was the extraordinary reply.
“Oh, do they?” replied Llewellyn without a smile, as if he was receiving a bit of information that was valuable. He unlocked his money drawer.
The Kuruva’s eyes glittered at the sight of the silver coins. He held out his cupped hands and Llewellyn dropped five rupees into them. The coins were quickly secreted in the loin-cloth.
“I go, sir, with your honour’s leave.”
“You can go,” was the reply.
Govind touched his forehead with his fingers and slipped away as silently as he had come. No word of thanks was spoken on either side, for the benefit received in the rescue nor for the present that was given by way of a reward. There is no word in the Indian vernaculars of the south that is an equivalent for “thank you.”
Some days later Govind sat on his heels, dejected and miserable. His head was bowed on his thin scraggy neck and his hands, long and bony, hung limply from his knotted wrists as his arms rested on his knees. The old man was in trouble, not of his seeking.
His black eyes had a furtive nervous expression. They seemed to have retreated still deeper into their sockets, and the thick straight eyebrows above them were like the ragged eaves of the palm-leaf thatch of a mud hut. His eyes shone if anything a little more brightly than usual, possibly with the excitement of finding himself in his present position.
He was a man of the hills and the jungle, and he loved not the low country where the towns were to be found. Necessity, however, drove him to the coast occasionally and to those level fertile tracts where villages and the back-waters existed. Where else could he find purchasers for the herbs, nuts and wild honey that he collected in the Ghauts?
At this moment he was a prisoner in the hands of the police and had been brought to the police court for a misdemeanour. He was conscious of his innocence, but how he was to prove it he did not know. He had spent the night within the four walls of a cell. The confinement had cowed him as it would have cowed a wild thing of the forest that had been captured.
He was surrounded by unfamiliar sights, and his ears were filled with strange sounds, the meaning of which was unknown to him. Gone were the pigeons and green barbets of the jungle, the mewing eagle with its marvellous flight overhead on outstretched motionless wings, the belling of the distant deer. Instead of the music of falling water and the rush of the torrent in the gorge, the swish of the morning breeze through the trees, his ears were filled with the sound of shuffling sandals outside, the shouts of bullock drivers and the creaking of springless carts in the streets; the raucous chatter of the crowd inside the building, each man speaking at his loudest, added to his bewilderment.
Only a few eyes were turned to the curious figure squatting there. He was guarded by a stolid indifferent constable, a man of the low country who had lately joined the force. The constable was ignorant of the fact that his prisoner belonged to one of the hill tribes accredited with powers of magic.
Perhaps he would have been less contemptuous of the man in his charge had he been aware that these magicians of the jungle bore the reputation of being able to assume the form of wild animals of the forest at will, to cast spells and to command the devils and spirits of the mountains, rocks and rivers.
The prisoner was not exercising any of his occult powers at the present moment. He was nothing but a dejected unhappy old man, detained against his will to receive sentence or be released according to the result of the enquiry into his case.
The story of his crime was simple. He was accused of having stolen fifteen rupees from the till of one of the stalls in the bazaar.
The owner of the stall had gone to his house to take his midday meal. He had left his nephew, who acted as his assistant, in charge. The shopkeeper had placed the cash-box under the young man’s care, having counted the money over with him so that there might be no misunderstanding on his return. The uncle departed with many injunctions to his nephew not to allow the box out of his sight for one moment.
Govind was passing. He carried four bottles of wild honey which he was offering for sale at a few annas each.
The honey had been gathered in the hills. It was made by the Indian bee, which is not much larger than the English house-fly. The combs hang on the rocky cliffs which are difficult of access. It requires a strong and bold climber to reach them. The bees have to be smoked out before they can be robbed and there is considerable danger in approaching them. They are pugnacious and ready to take the offensive with very little provocation. They are a menace to any traveller passing near their combs. The honey is taken by night, but even with this precaution the honey-gatherer has to be careful how he goes to work. Govind was not young enough now to brave the bees but he had grandsons who were adepts at it. They secured the honey and sent him out to sell it in the towns and villages of the low country. There was always a ready sale.
Govind did not cry his wares like the town hawkers. He moved along the street a few paces and then stood still. He had no need to advertise the honey or the nuts and herbs. His appearance was sufficient to proclaim his business.
On catching sight of the Kuruva with his bottles, the stall assistant signed to him to stop. He asked him the price of the honey and said that he would buy one of the bottles if they could come to terms. He told the old man to wait while he went inside the little room at the back of the stall to fetch his money. It had been left in the pocket of the coat he wore in the street.
The assistant returned and the usual ten minutes bargaining ensued. At the end of the time he became the possessor of a pint of the desirable wild honey for the price of four annas. The money was paid in copper coins which the old man tied up in a corner of his loincloth after his usual manner.
The stall assistant watched him as he secured the money. His sharp eyes detected the outline of other coins similarly tied in the cloth.
Govind passed down the street offering his honey to others. He had not proceeded more than fifty yards when the assistant pursued him with a noisy outcry, saying that the till had been robbed. Fifteen rupees had been taken, he declared, from the cash-box during his short absence in the inner room. The key had been left in the box for convenience. It had not been considered necessary, with one or other of the stall-holders constantly present, to do more than turn the key and leave it there.
It was the work of only a few minutes to summon the police. The old man was charged with robbery and arrested.
Govind was startled by the sudden accusation, and he was bewildered by the crowd that quickly gathered round him. In vain he assured the constables that he had not entered the shop, which was separated from the street by a flight of four or five wooden steps. He had remained in the roadway while he waited and had not set foot inside the stall. The assistant was positive that he had entered and committed the robbery.
“Who else could have done it?” he demanded vociferously. “The money was there when I went into the inner room. It was gone when I returned.”
The owner of the stall was summoned. He examined the cash-box and confirmed the assistant’s words. Fifteen rupees were missing. From his nephew’s account of the incident the only person who could have taken the money was the Kuruva. Were not Kuruvas known to be foil of trickery? There was every appearance that the tale was true.
Govind was marched off to the police station where he was searched. The sum of fifteen rupees was found knotted in a corner of his loin-cloth with the coppers he had received for his honey.
He was taken to the cells, where he spent an unhappy day and night. With the curious resignation of his kind he ceased protesting his innocence. He was obedient and quiet in the hands of the constables into whose custody he passed and he needed no personal restraint.
Food was provided and placed in the cell but it was not touched. As soon as the sun went down a strange lethargy overtook him, and he sank into a cataleptic state which lasted till the sun rose. A tin mug of hot coffee was gratefully accepted. It restored him to his normal condition, and between the hours of ten and eleven in the morning he was taken to the police court where the magistrate was expected who would decide his fate.
When he was arrested and was protesting his innocence he was asked if he could bring witnesses to swear that he had not entered the stall. How could he do so when he was in a strange town thronged with a crowd that was unfamiliar?
Then he was asked if he could call anyone who could testify to his previous good character? Here again he was at a loss. He was unknown in the town. He and his fellows were recognised only by the vague description of hill-men or jungle people.
Only one man existed whose word would carry weight in answering these harassing questions. This was Assistant Superintendent Llewellyn and he was in camp in the hills some thirty miles away. Even if the police officer were willing to come and “speak for him,” a request for his presence would have to be sent.
And now Govind was in the police court, waiting.
On the table in the court were the exhibits, the property taken from the prisoner, the three bottles of honey (old pickle bottles, each holding about a pint), his betel bag, aged and grimy, his money, fifteen rupees in silver coins and four annas in copper, his bamboo staff loaded at the lower end with a metal ferrule which gave it a swing in the hand as it was carried. A folded handkerchief worn sometimes as a covering for the head and sometimes as a shawl over his shoulders completed the inventory.
The constable stood near the prisoner, by way of guarding against a possible attempt to escape. He cast a contemptuous glance occasionally at the jungle-wallah, which was not lost on Govind although he made no sign that it was observed.
The court was already becoming hot and stuffy. Govind, squatting on his heels, missed the keen air of the mountains. He moved, altering his position slightly to relieve the muscles of his legs.
“Stand up,” said the constable. “And keep still,” he added. “If you give trouble the big master will double your time in prison.”
Govind grunted an apologetic acquiescence and rose to his feet.
“Prisoners are not allowed to talk unless they have leave,” said the constable.
A pleader whose business it was to look after the poorer prisoners came up and said firmly but kindly: “Your case will be tried before long. You must be patient.”
Govind recognised the compassionate tone and was encouraged to speak in self-defence.
“I didn’t take the money, your honour. The rupees tied up in my dupitee were mine.”
“I don’t know how an old man like you could be in possession of fifteen rupees. Is there any witness you can call who will testify to the fact that the money belongs to you?”
Govind relapsed into silence. What was a poor old man’s word against the word of these sharp dishonest bazaar tradesmen?
“You would be wise to plead guilty and confess to the robbery. I could urge that it was a first offence and beg for a light sentence.”
“I am not guilty, Excellency. I didn’t steal the money. It is a false charge. This poor old worm never steals. Ask his honour the police master of the hills where my people live, Mr. Llewellyn. He knows that I am not a thief.”
“Where is Mr. Llewellyn?”
“In camp on the hills——”
“Nearly forty miles distant. I am afraid that he is too far off to help you,” replied the pleader, walking away.
“Assistant Superintendent Llewellyn has something better to do than to come all this way just to give bazaar thieves like you a good character, which you don’t deserve,” said the constable. “He is——”
The rest of his speech was lost through the buzzing of a bee. From the sound it made it seemed to have flown direct from the window to the constable. It buzzed and pinged about his ears in a vicious manner as though bent on stinging. The object of its attack dodged and made passes with his hands in a vain endeavour to beat it off. He could not get rid of it. Jerking his head from side to side he stepped back, stamped his feet and struck wildly at the bee. At last unable to bear it any longer he bolted, leaving his prisoner unguarded.
The bee must have been close to Govind but the old man showed no sign of being alarmed or disturbed. He was accustomed to bees and was aware that the best defence against attack was to stand perfectly still and make no attempt to fight or beat them off. His long familiarity with the jungle and the creatures that lived in it had bred indifference.
Suddenly the police court company sprang to attention. The sound of a motor-horn outside announced the arrival of the magistrate. To the surprise of the officials attached to the court he was not alone. Llewellyn was with him, the one man who could “speak” for the good character of the Kuruva and clear his name. But Llewellyn had not been summoned. What had brought him to the town at such an opportune moment?
When Llewellyn entered the building his glance fell on the familiar figure standing in the dock. A sign of recognition passed between them and the deep-set eyes were lowered again as Govind relapsed into his former apathetic attitude. In answer to that momentary glance the Englishman had given an almost imperceptible nod. It was a slight gesture but it conveyed an assurance that was enough to relieve the prisoner’s mind of much of his anxiety and dejection.
The case was taken at once. The nephew of the stall-holder told his tale. It was uncorroborated. No one had actually seen the Kuruva inside the stall within reach of the cash-box. Nor did the young man venture to perjure himself to the extent of swearing that he had witnessed the theft.
Govind declared that he had remained in the street near the little flight of steps that led to the platform on which the stall was erected. With Llewellyn present his courage revived. He repeated his story without variation, protesting again and again that he had not entered the stall but had waited outside till the stall-keeper returned.
The owner of the stall, when examined, testified to the fact that there were fifteen rupees in the cash-box when he left his shop. He had drawn his nephew’s attention to the money, he added, before he put him in charge, and he had warned him not to leave the shop on any pretext whatever.
The Kuruva had denied the theft from the very beginning, but, when searched, the money was found tied up in his loin-cloth. The coins were not marked. But it stood to reason that a jungle-wallah was not likely to be carrying that sum about on his person even if he possessed it.
The stall assistant was once again put in the witness-box and questioned. He was dressed in fine white muslin and his turban was streaked with gold. His manner was self-assured and he gave his evidence confidently, with a touch of contempt when he mentioned the thief. He would have said much more, but when he dropped into abuse, he was brought back to the subject. He was asked if he could produce any witnesses in support of his charge against the Kuruva. Again he was obliged to admit that he was unable to do so.
At this point the bee that had attacked the constable in charge of the prisoner returned and was once more buzzing and pinging viciously. The man who had come back to his duty, dodged and beat at the insect, stamping his feet violently.
Two or three more bees were heard. They were buzzing about the stall assistant who was still in the witness-box. The pleaders and clerks were troubled also. Every now and then one person or another in the court would beat the air and dodge this way and that as an insect seemed to fly about his head and shoulders.
“What is the matter?” asked the magistrate at last. “The court is disturbed and no one is attending to business. Let us get on with the case.”
“It is a swarm of bees, your honour,” replied the chief clerk as he flapped a huge red handkerchief from side to side and jerked his head this way and that.
“They must be after the old man’s honey. Where do they come from?”
“I can’t say, your honour,” the clerk replied, as he stooped to brush away a bee that was inclined to make too close an inspection of the calf of his leg.
“We don’t get bees down here,” remarked the magistrate, puzzled by the strange interruption to the business of the court. “They belong to the hills. Have you ever seen them making their combs in the town?”
The clerk did not reply. He was too busy wrapping his muslin drapery about his naked legs lest they should be stung.
The bees were everywhere. The constables were stamping and stepping about as if they could think of nothing else. The pleaders and clerks were throwing handkerchiefs over their heads like veils and the court was being cleared rapidly. The magistrate turned to Llewellyn.
“I have never had such a thing happen before,” he remarked. “The odd part of it is I don’t see any bees myself, do you?”
“No,” replied Llewellyn shortly. His eyes went to the prisoner who continued to stand motionless in the dock, his hands hanging down by his side, nerveless except for an occasional twitch of the fingers. The only part of the old man that showed any vitality was his eyes. They travelled round the court from one person to another, catching the gaze of each disturbed individual.
“The bees must be after the honey,” said the magistrate again. “Cover the bottles with a cloth.”
Someone produced a coloured tablecloth which was thrown over the honey. The precaution did not abate the nuisance. The atmosphere was charged with a mental impression that was assuming the nature of a panic.
Several people left the court. Those who had business there went no further than a few yards from the veranda. Others who had come in out of curiosity to hear the cases, disappeared behind the building. A few returned to their legitimate work elsewhere. The owner of the stall and his nephew were beginning to have their suspicions that the bees had been “called.” They slipped away with a frightened backward glance at the Kuruva, deciding that it might be wiser to retire from the case.
“Now then,” said the magistrate, looking towards the clerk of the court. “Let us get on with this case. Where’s the plaintiff?”
A magistrate in an Indian police court learns to be prepared for all sorts of unusual incidents.
“This is very irregular,” he remarked as he waited for the complainants to reappear. “Is the prosecutor retiring from the case? Where’s the young man who is bringing the charge? Does this mean that he withdraws it?”
“He has been driven away by the bees your honour.”
“It looks as if they had followed him out. Let him be called.”
Llewellyn, who had his suspicions, thought it was time to speak. He said in a low voice:
“Before you go any farther, I may be able to spare you the trouble of recalling the man who has brought the charge. I can testify to the good character of the old hill-man. He belongs to my district, and I have known him for some time past. I have never found him otherwise than honest.”
“What does he do for a living?” asked the magistrate.
“He is a village seer and soothsayer. He is consulted by the villagers on all domestic occasions and fixes propitious dates for their religious ceremonies.”
“How did he come by the fifteen rupees found upon him?”
“He received ten for a monkey which he had caught and tamed. One of my inspectors saw him with it as he was taking it down from the hills. It was large and full-grown, almost as big as himself.”
“And how about the rest of the money?”
“I gave him the other five in payment for a job that the old man did for me.”
Llewellyn did not think it necessary to mention that Govind had extricated him from a very awkward position in the jungle when he was threatened by snakes. He continued with his history:
“I learnt also that he was saving money for the marriage of his grand-daughter. I can’t believe that he stole from the till of a shopkeeper. It is a false charge. These bazaar men look upon the jungle-wallah as a simpleton, easily frightened and imposed upon. They don’t know who they are dealing with.”
Meanwhile the court was rapidly recovering from the disorder into which it had been thrown. The bees had disappeared with the stall-holder and his nephew. The staff returned, treading cautiously. Some of the constables on re-entering the building regarded the Kuruva with eyes in which awe and respect lurked. The information had somehow got abroad that the old man belonged to one of the jungle tribes that were adepts at witchcraft. Everybody was aware that it was best not to meddle with such men.
The magistrate was informed that the prosecutors had departed and did not intend to continue with the charge.
“I shall dismiss the case under the circumstances,” he said. “The sooner the old man is off with his honey, the better it will be for all of us. Give him his property. I am satisfied that it is his and belongs to no one else—and let him go.”
The constable in charge hustled Govind out of the building. He was barely given time to stow away his property on his person, so relieved was everybody to see the last of him. Llewellyn made his way towards him as he was descending the steps of the veranda.
“I am glad that the magistrate was able to discharge you, old father of the forest,” he remarked, as soon as they were outside. “His honour was satisfied with what I said. The court has had enough of you and your bees.”
Govind blinked his eyes. Was it possible that he had dimly seen a vein of humour in the incident? He replied in the language of the country.
“Very troublesome things bees, sir. Nobody but the honey-buzzard likes bees.”
“You must take them all away with you. They mustn’t be left in the court to make a bobbery, or you will be fined for causing a disturbance.”
His words were said in the tone of a command implying that he knew how they had come there.
“This humble worm obeys when the swami speaks,” Govind replied.
“Are you going back into the forest now?”
“Not yet, your honour. I must sell my honey before I go back.”
“Very well, don’t get into more trouble while you are about it. I have something better to do than to run after you, and it will be of no use your calling me a second time. I shan’t come.”
“This worthless old man will not ask for more favours.”
Govind was not deceived by the threat. His honour was his friend and would remain so. With a deep salaam he asked leave to take his departure. He had restored his precious rupees to his loin-cloth. The bottles of honey he carried by the strings tied round their necks. His long bamboo staff was firmly grasped, and he strode off with the long springing step familiar to the man of the jungle. Llewellyn returned to his friend.
The owner of the stall where the money had been missed was sitting on a mat in his usual place. His wares were spread out before him. They consisted of a strange mixture of goods European and Asiatic, from an Indian woman’s saree to an Englishman’s pair of socks. Overhead were strings of gay little bags, substitutes for pockets for both men and women. But the shopman was not thinking of his goods. He was ruminating on the events of an hour ago. In the absence of all witnesses he was beginning to doubt the tale his nephew had told in court. It was true that money to the exact amount had been found on the old man, but this fact was no proof of guilt. With a constant stream of passers-by it would be no easy matter for even an expert thief to enter the stall and tamper with the money-box. The Kuruva with his bottles and his stick would not have the free use of his hands to manipulate the key in the lock. However quick his movements might be he could not avoid being seen. Anyone detected in open robbery in broad daylight would be pointed out as a thief at once.
Before the shopkeeper had left the court he had heard a whisper that the accused man was well known to the police officer who had arrived with the magistrate. He had come down from his camp in the hills it was said, for the express purpose of testifying to the good character of the prisoner. The plaintiff had also heard that the old man belonged to the Kuruva tribe, the members of which were reputed to be adepts in the practice of magic.
The assistant was seated at the back of the stall, where he was partially hidden from the passers-by. From his position he could keep his eye on the goods exposed for sale and see any prospective customers who were attracted and were likely to purchase something.
He caught sight of Govind advancing. The old man arrived at the stall and stopped. His eyes rested on the shopkeeper a short time and then went to the assistant.
Fear and anger seized the young man. He rose to his feet and took a step forward.
“We don’t want any more of your honey, you old thief! It is sour and mixed with water,” he cried roughly. “Clear off at once. A fine magistrate we have when he allows common thieves like you to go free!”
The Kuruva gazed at him steadily but made no reply. He remained standing at the foot of the steps. The assistant continued his abuse, coming to the top and throwing his hands about as if he was driving away a dog. His uncle remained seated, his eyebrows lifted in surprise at the sudden exhibition of anger on the part of his nephew.
The torrent of words ceased abruptly as the dreaded sound was heard once more.
“Ping! buzz! ping!”
There were at least three angry bees about the assistant’s head. They seemed to be trying to get into his ears just underneath his turban.
“Take away that honey!” he cried. “It brings the bees!”
He threw his hands about him wildly as he spoke. The pinging and buzzing increased as more bees arrived and swarmed about his legs. He grasped at his muslin garment and tried to drag it down over his bare shins. Now they were attacking his face. Back went his hands to protect his eyes and neck. He stamped, violently with his feet till he had the appearance of doing a war-dance. His turban fell off and rolled towards his uncle. He made a frantic grab at it but failed to recover it. A bee on the calf of his leg claimed his whole attention.
His uncle gazed at his antics in astonishment. The bees were not attracted to the older man who apparently neither saw nor heard them. They concentrated in their attack on the nephew.
A bee crawled on the back of the neck of the assistant. With a yell of pain and fright he bolted into the inner room behind the stall. He seized a blanket that was lying handy and flung it over his head, grovelling on the floor in a frenzy of apprehension and terror.
The shopkeeper rose to his feet and came to the top of the steps. He looked at the Kuruva in mystified enquiry.
“What is the meaning of all this bobbery?” he asked. “Why have you made my nephew dance like a performing bear?”
Govind pointed to the turban that had fallen from the head of the younger man.
“If your excellency will unroll the turban, the fifteen rupees will be found that were taken from your honour’s cash-box.”
The other seized the turban and followed the Kuruva’s directions. In its innermost folds he discovered the silver coins, knotted into the end of the coarse muslin. The rupees were not marked, but he did not doubt the truth of Govind’s statement. He lifted his head to speak to the old man, but he had vanished.
Llewellyn was staying the night with James Scott, the magistrate. He had dropped Joan at the judge’s house. The brother and sister were returning to camp the following day. The weather was warm for the time of the year, but the change from the hills to the sea was acceptable.
Llewellyn and Scott had finished lunch. They were seated in the airiest spot that could be found in the deep shaded veranda that ran on three sides of the bungalow. The sea breeze moved the bamboo blinds and rustled through the foliage of crotons, dracaenas and ferns that were grouped along the balustrade. Outside, the long fronds of the coconut palms rattled unceasingly like clashing rapiers in play.
“We are dining this evening at the Kingsburys’. They are kind hospitable people,” remarked Scott.
Llewellyn was silent. He was not at all sure that he wanted to meet the daughter of the house just yet. At the same time he was honest enough to admit to himself that she was the magnet that drew him from the hills. There were other reasons, but she had a large share in provoking this flying visit. He was deep in thought over the position. How did he stand with regard to her? Was she offended at his failure to keep faith with her and escort her down to the Ghaut road on the morning of her departure from the camp? What were his real feelings towards her? It was difficult to decide till he had seen her again. He would have preferred to put off any meeting as long as the edge of the annoyance remained. When it had worn off it would be easier to explain and to forgive.
“Haven’t you found them so?” asked Scott, glancing at his absent-minded guest.
“Yes,” replied Llewellyn, collecting his thoughts.
It was a colourless affirmative. He was brought down from his preoccupation by his companion’s sudden awakened curiosity. Ashamed of his lukewarmness he added with more animation:
“Yes, oh yes! They have always been very kind, particularly so to my sister. She and Miss Kingsbury are great friends. Nancy paid us a flying visit last week to the camp. We hoped that she would have made it ten days. She was summoned back by her mother. Some social function required her presence at home.”
“That was the big dance at the mess probably.”
“She said that they were expecting staying guests.”
“I daresay,” responded Scott. “The officers of the detachment do things well. People are glad to come in from the district for anything of the kind. Of course Nancy would be in the thick of it, with a party from her house. She is very popular with the officers. If she has a fancy for any one of them it is Denning. He’s a wonderfully good fellow. She couldn’t make a better choice.”
“Are they engaged?” asked Llewellyn sharply.
“Not yet,” said Scott. He drifted on with speculations common to isolated communities where the local interest is centred on the private affairs of the members. The question put by his friend made him suddenly think of the possible inference that might be drawn by the coupling of the names of Nancy and Denning. He continued:
“Mind, I don’t say that there is anything but dancing in it. It’s the fashion of the day, like partnering each other at lawn-tennis and playing rounds of golf together. They are excellent friends, and Denning would be lost without his little partner. We have no grounds for believing that it is anything more. But you never know.”
“I suppose one is at liberty to draw conclusions from what meets the eye,” remarked Llewellyn.
Scott was not satisfied with the impression he had given. Perhaps he had gone a little too far in what he had said.
“Nancy is all right. She knows what she is doing and has got her wits about her. But she likes to have her own way. My wife used to say that Nancy reminded her of one of those rainbow dragonflies, flitting and buzzing about on her various pleasures. She used to call her the demoiselle.”
They smoked on in silence for a few minutes. Llewellyn’s thoughts were recalled by a remark made by his companion. Perhaps the use of the word buzzing unconsciously reminded Scott of the incidents of the morning.
“Lucky for that old Kuruva that you happened to look in at the court to-day. Your testimony to his good character was sufficient for me to discharge him. The old man was innocent of the theft of which they accused him.”
“I am sure that he was,” responded Llewellyn with conviction.
“It was odd about the bees. Did you hear them?”
“Not at first. I caught the sound a little later.”
“So did I. It was very curious. The bees sounded so angry, as if they meant business. It put the wind up in court. The place seemed full of them. Did you see any?”
Llewellyn smiled as he replied.
“There were no bees to see. It was ventriloquism. I am glad the old man didn’t make it snakes instead of bees.”
“In that case the stampede would have been greater than it was.”
Scott smoked on for a minute or so. His memory was at work.
“Not very long ago I had a man brought up before me who undoubtedly possessed some strange psychic powers. He was not a jungle-wallah nor did he belong to any of these jungle tribes. I think he had been attached to a temple at some time in his youth. He received all the education they could give him there in things secular, philosophical and supernormal. Then he left the seat of learning to make money on his own. To do this he was trading on the credulity of the people. It was all right as long as he confined himself and his tricks to the villages and the country people, but he met his match when he tried his impositions on our chetties and shopkeepers of the towns.”
“What was he doing?”
“Before long he was hauled up before me for ‘Pretending to breed pearls and gems.’ He persuaded some silly women, the wives of four or five merchants to entrust him with the family jewels on the assurance that if they were placed with his own, they would breed and multiply. The women were to have the result of this immoral intercourse. He swore that he had the stones from the treasure chamber of the Emperor of China, where they had bred some notable large gems. Of course the tale was swallowed.”
“Idiots! Yet they are not the only credulous fools in the world,” said Llewellyn with a laugh. “I suppose he made off with the jewels?”
“Not at first. The women were delighted beyond measure to receive a handful of new gems. Their eyes were dazzled by the gleam of the wonderful cut glass, the sort of stuff you buy at the sixpenny shops. They were too excited to look for the real jewels and see if they had been returned. The best stones and pearls had been knocked out of their settings so that they might be introduced to his stud gems. He declared that the originals were all there but they were so enamoured of their partners and so busy reproducing their kind that it would be a pity to disturb their orgy and imprison them again in their settings. The tale went abroad and the women of the town showered their jewels on him, begging him to allow their treasures to be impregnated. Then he departed, going off with as much loot as he could carry. A few days later the husbands looked into the matter, and naturally there was the devil to pay in the domestic circles of most of the shopkeepers.”
“Was the man caught?”
“At Bombay, but he had disposed of his plunder by the time he was taken. He was brought down here to my court. Do you think I could do anything with him? Not a bit of it! It was impossible to get the witnesses to identify him. As for telling a plain straightforward story of what happened, they failed completely. As soon as they confronted him in the dock, they hesitated and contradicted themselves right and left. A blankness and stupidity came over the unfortunate man or woman, and all knowledge and recognition of the thief evaporated. The witness swore on oath that he or she had never seen the man previously. All the time the witness was in the witness-box the prisoner’s eyes were fixed upon him. He was as helpless as a bird that is paralysed by a snake. I had a suspicion that some hanky-panky was going on but I could not stop it. I tried taking evidence on commission but it wasn’t sufficient. The scoundrel had to be identified,” said Scott.
“Were the witnesses cowed by the fear of curses?” asked Llewellyn.
“It was more than that,” answered Scott. “It was clever hypnotism, I should say. It was felt by everyone in the court and terrified the whole company. I was very glad to get rid of the man, although it was a matter of great regret that I could not convict and punish him.”
“That class of man is very difficult to get hold of at any time,” remarked Llewellyn. “I am sure that this old man Govind knows the rudiments of the art of hypnotism and how to play on the imagination of his fellow countrymen.”
“My prisoner was a far cleverer rascal than this old charlatan,” observed Scott.
“I shouldn’t call Govind a charlatan exactly,” said Llewellyn. “He undoubtedly possesses supernormal powers of some kind. They are inherited. What became of the gem breeder?”
“He got off, as I said. Most likely he is playing his confidence tricks a thousand miles up north. There was great lamentation over the loss of the jewels. It was said that he carried off a lak of rupees’ worth, but it was difficult to sympathise with the victims. How can one feel any pity for fools who believe that their pearls and diamonds, given the opportunity, will breed like themselves?”
“Perhaps one ought not to blame the people entirely for being imposed on,” said Llewellyn. “They are certainly up against men who possess supernormal powers.”
“Such as my breeder of gems possessed,” agreed Scott.
“And in a lesser degree Govind, the seer,” added Llewellyn.
“My man was the finished product,” said Scott. “He had acquired a superior knowledge from the education given to him in his temple. It had developed his inherited faculties. Your old seer, as you call him, has inherited certain faculties about which he knows nothing. He pulls the strings with no conception of the nature of the force which he is using. They have one aim in common, however. They both work for selfish ends, the gem-breeder dishonestly, the jungle-wallah for small gains which he does not consider dishonest.”
“That’s a question,” said Llewellyn. “Govind and I might hold different views on the subject when he is practising his black magic and professing to control mischievous demons that exist only in the imagination of his clients.”
“How does he live?”
“By working spells and making charms, and, as I said, by doing a little devil-catching when his clients are persuaded that they have loose demons about to plague them and give them fever. In a way I believe he plays fair and doesn’t steal. But of course he profits by his tricks. We may call it a living if we like. He is paid usually in kind, not in money. I allow him the run of the camp, but he is very shy and retiring. His village is only a few miles distant from the place where I am camping at the present time. The constables favour him. They believe that he brings good luck. But my inspector hates the sight of him.”
“Why, I wonder,” said Scott ruminating.
“Probably Maxwell is just a trifle in awe of the faculties the old man professes to have.”
“Which shows that the inspector has a certain respect and perhaps faith in the Kuruva’s supernatural powers,” said Scott. “Odd, isn’t it, how ordinary men hate anything in the shape of a power that they don’t comprehend?”
“And they can’t help showing it in their attitude towards the inexplicable and mysterious,” agreed Llewellyn. “The educated Westerner, as a rule, scoffs and openly expresses disbelief in the inscrutable, whatever his secret feelings may be. The ignorant and superstitious accept it and tremble.”
Scott nodded his head in acquiescence. After a pause he said:
“If it could be explained scientifically we should have no difficulty in accepting it. Probably we should be surprised at its simplicity.”
“You might say the same of sleep and death, neither of which are diagnosed psychically.”
Both men had something more than a superficial knowledge of the people among whom their work lay. It was not their habit to talk generally of such matters to their casual friends and acquaintances. Here was an opportunity of exchanging ideas in the privacy of a tête-à-tête which they were both glad to take. After a few minutes’ silence Scott spoke.
“If an old jungle-wallah inherits the faculty of ventriloquism, hypnotism, an uncanny sense of direction and the extraordinary power of communicating with his fellow men at a distance, a kind of inborn wireless capacity, why—I want to know—why haven’t we got it?”
“Are you sure that we don’t possess it?” asked Llewellyn. “It’s latent of course. We have something else to do than to practice what the world would consider conjuring tricks that no one would believe in. We have no need for them in our daily work.”
Yet, as he spoke the words, he was dimly aware that he was not being quite honest with himself. He had not forgotten his call to Govind when he was held up by the snakes. Something in his tone made Scott turn his eyes on his old friend and ask an intimate question. They had known each other many years and had been at school together.
“Have you ever tried to send a message without the aid of scientific appliances?”
The story of Govind’s response to his call was told.
“I might have concluded that it was chance but the old man told me seriously that he heard my summons and responded to it, regarding it as an order.”
“Was it a case of ‘What master wishing, that only I saying?’”
“He named the hour at which I sent my S.O.S. I had looked at my watch. He was correct. The so-called order was conveyed by means of a ‘rapport’ of some kind that was not dependent on ordinary speech.”
“You didn’t shout his name?”
“I was silent all the time. I was concentrating on a supreme mental effort, an exercising of the will.”
Again they were silent. In the absence of all scientific knowledge any explanation was impossible.
“These men claim to have forest imps in their service, little demons who carry messages, identical with goblins and household trolls,” said Scott.
“That’s how they account for the way in which news flies about in the East,” replied Llewellyn. “They believe it themselves because they cannot account in any other way for the uncanny power they possess of transmitting and receiving news.”
“How do they recognise the presence of the messenger?” asked Scott.
“By a movement in the foliage or an invisible stirring of wings.”
“Which we should ascribe to an unseen bird or beast.”
Scott returned to the consideration of the mysterious powers that dimly manifested themselves in these children of the forest.
“When we come into contact with the jungle folk pure and simple, we are very near to the prehistoric people of past ages. Primitive men went one better than the wild animals in the matter of intelligently seeing, hearing, smelling and observation. They had an uncanny mental sense of danger. These valuable powers we have almost entirely lost.”
“We have not needed them,” remarked Llewellyn.
Scott continued the line of his thought.
“Govind and his forebears, dwelling in close communion with the forest have retained them by constant use. The Kuruva is a survival of the past. In his instincts he is nearer to the animal of the forest than to the man of the town.”
Llewellyn agreed. He had on more than one occasion felt that Govind’s knowledge of the jungle was like that of the deer or the leopard. He never lost his way among the intricate maze of game tracks that the vast forests contained, and he always retained a sense of the points of the compass, a most difficult thing to do when buried in thick overarching vegetation on a track that for ever turned and twisted over uneven ground.
“You say that you have allowed the old man to come to the camp as often as he likes,” said Scott.
“Yes, and I have so far had no cause to regret it.”
“Does he bring you game or supplies of any kind?”
“No, it is not necessary.”
“And he doesn’t pilfer? These men belonging to the jungle tribes are apt to be light-fingered.”
“I’ve never lost anything as far as I know.”
“What reason does your inspector give for objecting to his presence?”
“He believes that Govind is a spy and that he helps a criminal to escape now and then. He is convinced that a Mysore dacoit was assisted recently down the Ghaut from the plateau to the coast by Govind. As it happened the fugitive was not the right man. He had marks on him that might have led us to believe that he was the criminal, but I had information from Mysore afterwards to the effect that the true dacoit left the country via one of the east coast ports. He never came our way at all.”
“And you absolve him from all complicity?”
Llewellyn did not reply immediately. He recalled the inspector’s story of the men who had seen Govind in the company of a stranger who answered to the description of the dacoit on the road. At the time there was little doubt that it was the wanted man. If it had been proved at the time it would have brought trouble for the Kuruva. At any rate it would have shown in which direction the old man’s sympathies lay. Were they on the side of the breakers of the law? He remembered the strange incident of the march of the wild elephants.
“To tell you the truth,” he said at last, “I don’t know what to think.”
He related the account given by the inspector of how he was held up by the passing of the great ones when he was on the point of intercepting the gang of smuggling gipsies.
“I paid a visit to the spot a day or two afterwards and could find no trace of elephants. The age-old route was still distinguishable as plainly as any ancient Roman road, but there wasn’t a sign of an elephant having passed that way recently.”
“H’m! hypnotism?”
“It must have been. I could have believed it more easily if there had been only constables. But with Maxwell—would he be a possible subject for the old man’s tricks?”
“Is he pure British?” asked Scott.
“Calls himself Scotch, but he was born and brought up in India and has an oriental strain in his blood——”
“. . . which would be quite sufficient,” said Scott decisively.
“Would you consider that Europeans were proof against the old man’s wiles?” asked Llewellyn.
His thoughts flew swiftly to Major Carter and the filming of the tiger, but he did not allude to the incident. Scott made no reply. He was thinking of something else.
“I should like to know—if it isn’t asking too much—what brought you down here so unexpectedly?”
His eyes dwelt on his friend with curiosity. The two men were probing the subject deeply with an open mind. Scott was not a man to allow any personal scruples to interfere with a vital enquiry of this kind.
“Joan wanted to do a little shopping.”
“Oh! I thought perhaps the old man might have had something to do with it. Since we are thrashing the subject out, it would interest me if you could think back and tell me whether there was any other reason—urge shall I call it?—that made you take the journey.”
Llewellyn replied without hesitation, searching his memory for the motives for his recent movements.
“Govind was certainly in my mind all yesterday, so much so that I enquired more than once if he had been seen in camp. One of the constables, a hill-man by birth, ventured to say that he believed Govind had gone to the coast to sell honey.”
“How did he know?”
“Impossible to say, unless the constable had seen the Kuruva lately. When I asked him if that was so he assured me that it was not.”
“In what way did the old man come into your mind?”
“I seemed to visualise him as he ordinarily appears, just as I might visualise you if your name was mentioned.”
“What did he look like? Did he seem to be staring at you?”
“He was in his old blanket, leaning on his long bamboo staff, and he was looking at me just as he does when he wants to speak. He has the old-fashioned habit of waiting for permission to make a request or a communication of any kind,” replied Llewellyn.
“He was projected on to your plane of mental vision and then into your circle of thought. Then having the vision before your mind do you think some telepathic wave touched your brain with a vague suggestion that the old man had need of your help?”
“You may put it like that if you like,” admitted Llewellyn, a little reluctantly.
“And you dismissed the presentiment except in so far as to acquiesce in your sister’s proposal that you should bring her down here to do a little shopping?”
“I had other matters to occupy my mind. One was a queer case of impersonation in a village which I have every reason to believe was carried out with the aid of hypnotism.”
Scott was not interested at the moment in hypnotism. He wanted to follow up the Kuruva’s supposititious call for help.
“You banished the impression without making any attempt to discover how or why it came. You hardened yourself against exercising any power you might possess of comprehending this primitive telepathy.” Llewellyn lifted a hand in protest but Scott would not allow him to speak. He continued: “Excuse me, it appears that you deliberately turned a deaf ear to what might have proved a most interesting experiment in psychology.”
Llewellyn was roused into self-defence. He would no longer keep silence.
“My dear fellow! Where should I be with all the work I have to do if I sat dreaming and speculating over mental impressions of such a trivial nature?” he protested.
“Just so,” replied Scott. “We’re all like that in these practical days. We reject the psychic world and refuse to have anything to do with it.” He turned sharply on his companion. “You admit the existence of a psychic world?”
“Impossible not to give some credence to it when men like——”
Scott would not let him finish. He was too full of his subject to listen.
“And yet, admitting its existence as you do, you behave like the rest of the educated masses of the West, stopping your ears and resolutely shutting your eyes to phenomena which you cannot explain. You do it with a purpose. Unconsciously you want to persuade yourself that this mysterious elusive world with which you are put in touch through men like Govind is non-existent.”
Scott rose from his chair, aware that he had let himself go farther perhaps than he would have done, if Llewellyn had not been an old friend. He had finished his smoke. Work was waiting for him in his study.
“Pardon me, old man, it wasn’t your sister who brought you down here on the spur of the moment. It was that old man, Govind the seer,” he said.
“May be,” responded Llewellyn good-naturedly. The warm moist sea air was making him sleepy. He was not anxious to go deeply into motives for his visit. The Kuruva may have had something to do with creating the urge. Equally, Joan may have added her quota. To be perfectly honest with himself Llewellyn knew the magnet that had drawn him was Nancy Kingsbury. But this fact he had no intention of admitting to anyone.
“Did you make a study of your man, the breeder of pearls and gems?” he asked.
“He was no good for that purpose, too artificial by a long way. In this old man you have the raw material untouched by education. Govind has never been taught to pose. My man was up to his tricks and was making a spectacular display of them. He was playing to the pit and gallery, to me and my court. Your old man had no thought of playing and posing while he was calling the bees to extricate him from his awkward position.”
“Govind is absolutely innocent of the dramatic spirit.”
“And therefore I say,” continued Scott, “that he would be an admirable subject for mental vivisection by any student who wanted to investigate and analyse the faculties of the mind.”
Llewellyn had no inclination to take up the study of the supernormal. His thoughts were occupied with quite another matter, a subject common to all the world, and Nancy was the centre of it.
It was a merry party that collected at the judge’s house for dinner. Such gatherings are familiar to all whom fate calls to the East. In after years they are remembered with a strain of regret. The little band of exiles scatter in a few months’ time after such meetings and they rarely come together again.
Nancy gave Llewellyn a warm welcome, as he and Scott walked into the large drawing-room. Her greeting was equally warm to the older man. It could therefore convey no special meaning for Llewellyn. His mind was set at rest on one point that had been troubling him. She had not taken offence at his failure to keep his appointment with her. He would have an opportunity, he promised himself, of explaining later. There would be a short dance after dinner for the young people and cards for their elders. Nancy could guess what was in his mind.
“Oh, yes,” she cried, her laughing eyes bringing the colour to his brow. Mischief peeped out as she added, “I’ve forgiven you, Evan. I had a nice ride down the hill with Joan.”
“And a deadly dull journey down the Ghaut road with Denning!”
“What has Llewellyn been doing, Nancy, that he should need your forgiveness?” asked Scott with mild curiosity.
Before she could reply other visitors arrived, and the two men went on to be greeted by their hosts.
“You are making a very short visit, Mr. Llewellyn,” said Mrs. Kingsbury.
“I ought not to have taken the little holiday at all, but business called me down from camp.”
“Must Joan go back with you to-morrow? We should like to keep her a few days longer.”
“That’s a matter I must leave to her.”
The men, as is usually the case in an up-country station, out-numbered the women, and Llewellyn found himself at table among several club friends. Nancy was seated between Captain Denning and the assistant collector, who had motored in from his headquarters. She was dividing her attention between the two, but she found an opportunity now and then of sending a glance in Llewellyn’s direction.
His heart sank as he watched her. Although she smiled every time she caught his eyes, her glance was oftener directed towards Denning. It seemed to Llewellyn that an understanding of some kind must exist between the two. Jokes passed backwards and forwards which were not always shared or understood by their neighbours.
Another pair of eyes were quietly observant. Joan was also drawing her conclusions concerning the understanding that existed between the two. She caught her breath in a little sigh that was lost in the buzz of conversation. Then she fell to reproaching herself for giving a second thought to Denning. He had never said a word to lead her to believe that he was exceptionally interested in her personally. She reminded herself that she was the sister of the man in whose power it lay to give him some jungle shooting. If not a tiger, the acme of every sportsman’s hopes in India, there was the less noble game of the deer kind, possibly a leopard and certainly plenty of small game: pigeons, jungle fowl, snipe and wild duck. And Joan would be his hostess, a fact that she did not forget.
It was not till after dinner, when cards and dancing had begun, that Denning could get a word with her.
“Can you give me a dance, Miss Llewellyn?” he asked.
“So sorry, I have only the last left.”
“Let me have it please.”
Joan glanced at him. Something in his tone set her heart beating. It gave her the impression that he was not indifferent to her reply. She pulled herself together and told herself not to be a fool.
“With pleasure,” she answered.
“I want to ask your brother—if I can catch him—whether he would mind if I came up for a couple of nights, whether you would be so kind as to let me join you——”
“I’m afraid we can’t offer to put you up. We haven’t a spare tent.”
“I would send up my own of course and all the necessary camp kit. There’s room in the glade?”
Joan laughed as she replied:
“Room enough for the whole detachment if you liked. We can’t complain of want of space on our lovely Western Ghauts. You will bring your rifles?”
“When may I come?”
“As soon as you like.”
“Splendid!”
The music had begun, the servants had cleared away rugs and furniture; and already a couple, knowing how short the time must be, had taken their places on the dancing floor.
“Now then, Jack, come along,” said Nancy’s voice at his elbow. Joan smiled good-naturedly. She was more than ever convinced that Nancy had grounds for her little exhibition of authority. Denning did not look so happy. It was evident that he had more to say. To reassure him, Joan went on:
“Very well, Captain Denning. We shall expect you in camp any day and I will have a tiger ready for you if possible. I suppose you can do without a wild elephant? You will want a licence for that.”
“Jack! do come. The dances are to be short. What’s this about your going up to camp? You can tell me all about it as we dance.”
Her arm was in his and appreciable pressure drew him to the dancing floor. As they moved away, Evan came up.
“Too late to catch Nancy,” he remarked. “Scott says she is as elusive as a dragonfly.”
“Is that what he calls her?”
“Demoiselle, which is another term for it,” replied Llewellyn.
“A very good name for her,” said Joan, her eyes following the couple. Their dancing was a pleasure to watch.
“Joan,” said her brother as he too looked after them, “is there anything between those two?”
“That’s more than I can tell you. I should say,” she continued slowly, “that it is nothing but Nancy’s flighty complex, as it is called in these days. Just at this minute, as she is in Captain Denning’s arms, the dragonfly temperament is uppermost. Where is Mr. Scott?”
“Deep in Contract. If he wasn’t so completely immersed I would propose home and bed. I say, old thing, are you prepared for an early start to-morrow morning?”
“Any time you like to name.”
“Have you done all your shopping?”
“Everything; and the spoil is here ready to be put on the car.”
“Good, let’s get off before sunrise and we shall be out of this warm bath of a climate before it gets unbearable.”
“All right, I shall be ready. We won’t disturb the house. I’ll tell the ayah to bring me my tea and toast early.”
The music was stopping. Their eyes were unconsciously still following the movements of the couple in whom they were both interested. As the waltz died away Denning and his partner dropped out of the little crowd. He was inclined to return to the spot where Evan and Joan were standing, but Nancy drew him away, and they disappeared in the direction of the veranda. There they would find seats among the palms and ferns in the subdued light of the hanging hurricane lamps.
Joan’s attention was diverted by the arrival of a belated partner, the doctor of the regiment.
“Miss Llewellyn! will you ever forgive me? We’ve missed our dance. I was detained by the judge himself.”
“You have been talking business. Against the rules, you know. No shop after six o’clock.”
“The judge’s fault. One of our men is going up before him to-morrow morning and he wanted certain information that I was able to give him. May I have the next dance?”
She put her hand on his arm. Evan was moving away towards the card-room. The dancers had disappeared and the drawing-room was empty. No one noticed their respective movements.
“Will you be very kind, Captain Beever,” she said, “and let me off the dance? My brother has just told me that I must be ready to start to-morrow morning at a quarter to six punctually. We shall have thirty miles of road in the car and then a long ride through the jungle. I shall be wise if I slip off to bed at once.”
“What about your other partners?”
“They may gnash their teeth and consign me to the lower regions, while they console themselves with the champagne cup which is waiting for them in the dining-room.”
So it happened that when Denning looked for Joan to claim the dance which she had promised he could not find her. Nancy seeing him without a partner hurried up to him.
“Haven’t you got a partner, Jack?” she cried.
“Miss Llewellyn——” he began.
“Gone to bed, I bet you a couple of kisses. Never mind. My partner has also vanished. Let’s dance this together.”
They made the most of the remaining ten minutes but both were silent and abstracted. This was the dance Nancy was keeping for Evan. Their dances could not be otherwise than a pleasure to them under any circumstances. Their steps were in perfect accord. But Denning was disappointed. He wanted to see Evan as well as Joan and make sure of his visit to camp. Joan might make no difficulty over the arrangement, but it was Llewellyn himself who would have to be consulted.
If dragonflies had stings the little demoiselle would have found gratification in piercing the skin of the assistant superintendent of police for this second breach of faith.
Long before Nancy was awake the next morning the two-seater was gallantly breasting the long uphill road towards the cool fresh glade where the white tents stood. It was a silent drive. Unknown to each other, the brother and sister were doing their best to reconcile themselves to existing conditions and to shake themselves free of vague dreams that had disturbed their minds of late.
The ponies were awaiting them. As they plodded up the steep track and inhaled the mountain breeze, their spirits rose. By the time they reached the camp, where a good breakfast was ready to be served, they had both returned to their normal enjoyment of life. They asked for nothing better than the glorious scenery and the wild life that was so full of fascination.
A few mornings after his return the post brought a letter to Llewellyn from Denning. The writer expressed many regrets for not having seen him before he left the station. He went on to say that he would much like to pay a short visit to the camp before Llewellyn and his sister moved on. He mentioned the fact that he had spoken of it to Miss Llewellyn.
Evan glanced at his sister, who explained the allusion.
“Of course! By all means let’s have him up,” he said. “You and he can go after the birds, but I hope you won’t want to follow up bigger game.”
Joan laughed as she regarded her brother’s serious face.
“My dream is a tiger or a leopard, but I will leave it at that, a dream. I am not sure that I really want to shoot any of these big beasts unless I can get some venison. I hanker after a venison pasty.”
“I shall write and tell Denning that we shall be delighted to see him. The tent will come up to-morrow and he will follow the day after.”
He turned to go to his office. She stopped him with a question.
“It’s against the rules altogether, I know, but my curiosity is all agog.”
“What about?” he asked.
“That man who was setting the village of Kalivitri in such an uproar. Have they caught him?”
“Yes, and he will be sent for trial for impersonating a dead man and obtaining money and jewels on false pretences,” said Evan.
“Impudent scoundrel!” exclaimed Joan. “Just fancy the cheek of it! Posing as the husband of a grass-widow!”
“I believe I have to thank Govind for help in this matter,” remarked Llewellyn.
“I thought that the sympathies of the old man were usually with the criminal.”
“The inspector would have us think so, but I am inclined to give him credit for more honesty of purpose.”
“Do tell me about it,” said Joan, who had nobody but her brother to talk to. “I am sure you’re not in a hurry this morning, Evan. Sit down for five minutes and have a cigarette before you go to that stuffy tent.”
He was not sorry to comply. At night after dinner he was so sleepy that he could not be called good company. It was only at odd moments during the day that Joan could entice him to talk.
“This man was in Burmah with another, working in one of the big timber companies. They were both west coast people. Naturally they spoke about their respective villages and belongings. One man died in an accident. The other hurried back to the district. Instead of going to his own village, he had the cheek to claim to be the man who had been killed. The wife, dreading widowhood like the devil, accepted him as her husband, pretended to identify him and handed over the family jewels and property which had been left in her keeping. She was very pleased to have a husband on hand again. It raised her status in the village and gratified her vanity as well as her personal feelings.”
“How was the deception discovered?”
“The impostor was of too grasping a nature. He wanted more of the family jewels than were his share. Quarrelling began and doubts were expressed. He might yet have carried it off if his so-called wife had not sided with her brother on the question of the ownership of the jewels. A hasty beating was given by the impostor to the woman. This caused her to reconsider her identification, and she denounced him as a fraud and a cheat.”
“So they sent for the police?”
“That’s the very last thing they will do. They called in Govind to discover the truth by occult means. He set to work to cast spells and he succeeded in terrifying the culprit with visions and dreams to such an extent that he made an abject confession and begged to be allowed to depart. But Govind himself informed the police. The man’s relatives were brought from his own village and identified him.”
“And the woman? Have you run her in as an accomplice?”
“I didn’t think it necessary to bother about her. I could very well leave her to the headman and his punchayet or village court. She begs to be treated as a forsaken wife, but the ‘city fathers’ have decided on widowing her. Her head will be shaved, she will be deprived of her jewels and she will serve, according to immemorial custom, as a slave in her brother-in-law’s house.”
“Poor thing!” said Joan, who knew all about the fate of the Indian widow.
“If it hadn’t been for Govind’s black magic, the scoundrel would have escaped, with as much of the family jewellery as he could carry, to join another wife he had left in Burmah. I praised up the old man to Maxwell, but he is too prejudiced against Govind to allow that he can do anything right. He hinted that he would have the old Kuruva ‘on toast’ before long. Then I should be convinced that Govind was a bad lot and that I ought to banish him from the camp.”
“Oh, Evan! don’t do that,” cried Joan in protest. “He is part and parcel of the jungle, like the deer and the porcupine, the wild pigs and the leopards. I should miss him if you sent him away.”
“So should I,” rejoined Evan.
“What spell did he put on the false husband?”
“He made him see hundreds of little brown snakes everywhere. The man couldn’t stir without visualising swarms of horrid wriggling snakes, poisonous little reptiles such as you may find in the swamps. He was completely unhinged.”
Joan laughed happily enough.
“I don’t wonder at his being scared to death by the sight of them. I’ve heard of people in England seeing snakes under certain conditions, but their visions were not conjured up by an old jungle seer.”
“No, the magic in their case is out of a bottle. I must be off,” he said, rising from his camp chair. “I see Inspector Maxwell has arrived. He looks very severe this morning, as if he had a rod in pickle for someone.”
“The old man, I’ll bet my best hat!”
Inspector George Maxwell was proud of his name. He was under the impression that all who heard it believed that he was British born and bred. To anyone who would listen he was in the habit of saying:
“I am of Scotch descent and belong to the great Maxwell clan. My grandmother was English.”
Questioned about the great Maxwell clan he was vague in his reply and unable to give historical details to confirm his statement. If pressed he said that the clan originally came from a hilly district in Scotland known as Maxwellton Braes, a puzzling statement which, however, no one country-born could contradict.
He was a good-looking man with fine eyes and regular features. His complexion was dark. In Europe he might have passed as a Spaniard in whose veins ran Moorish blood. In Asia the fact could not be hidden that he was country-born. A dark strain had entered the family tree since its ancestors had left “the bonnie braes” of old Scotland.
Nobody could say that George Maxwell was any the worse for his mixed blood. He was a steady well-behaved Anglo-Indian, serving his country and doing his duty in exceptionally trying times, but he was not brilliant.
Born in Malabar, South India, he had an intimate knowledge of the vernacular, although English was the language spoken in his domestic circle. If he had a weakness it was a love of dress. He prided himself on being as well turned out as any European in the services.
He studied the fashions closely, writing to the London shops for patterns and estimates although he had no intention of placing an order. He knew the correct number of buttons that should appear on his waistcoats and the precise shape of the cuff of his sleeve. Occasionally fashion was too quick for him and he was put to some trouble to bring himself up to date. With the aid of a clever veranda tailor, however, he caught up with the latest mode and managed to remodel points that had grown obsolete during a long camping season. Fortunately, he was not troubled over the cut of his uniform. It retained its shape without deviation from its original lines and put the wearer to no trouble or expense.
Llewellyn liked Maxwell in spite of his little weaknesses. He found him reliable and helpful. But he had one serious fault not uncommon among the Anglo-Indians of mixed blood. Maxwell did not like the Indians: he held them in contempt, which was a mistake.
The Indian, no matter what his caste, resents the assumption of superiority. He is observant and quick to notice anything of the kind.
Llewellyn frequently had occasion to regret the want of sympathy on the part of his inspector with those he had to deal with. He found himself on the watch to prevent friction and possible harshness on Maxwell’s part, where suspicion was aroused. At the same time he had to be careful to support his inspector’s authority. No laxity on the part of the subordinates could be tolerated in carrying out any orders he might have issued.
Why Maxwell disliked Govind, Llewellyn could never discover. The old man had done nothing to rouse the inspector’s ire. The dislike was unreasonable. Govind ignored it. He was always respectful and ready to obey any order that was given. He came and went just as it suited his convenience, giving no account of his flittings. Choosing some sheltered spot within the boundary of the camping ground, he squatted on his heels motionless and silent. He might have been a stray dog without an owner.
The usual business of the day was finished. Llewellyn glanced at Maxwell as he straightened some papers that were lying on the blotter in front of him. The inspector drew a little nearer and lowered his voice.
“I think, sir, that more definite action might be taken with regard to the old Kuruva. I am constantly warning him off.”
“Is it necessary? The man does no harm.”
“That’s as it may be,” replied Maxwell darkly.
“Does he give any reason for his visits?”
“No, sir. If he is asked why he has come, he makes no reply but just disappears.”
“Has any member of the camp, my servants and the peons and constables on duty, complained?”
The inspector was obliged to admit that he had heard no complaint.
“It seems to me that the whole staff, including the camp people, are rather pleased than otherwise to see him about the place,” said Llewellyn, glancing sharply at the inspector, whom he suspected of being the only one of their number who took exception to the presence of the old man.
“They are afraid to speak,” replied Maxwell with some heat.
The statement was not convincing in the face of what Llewellyn had observed.
“So far the old man has done no harm. We have never missed anything from the camp,” he said.
“It is not a question of honesty. I am quite willing to admit that he doesn’t actually thieve.”
From his manner of speaking Llewellyn concluded that Maxwell had something in reserve.
“What is it that you have in your mind?”
Again the voice was lowered, this time to almost a whisper.
“I believe he is a spy, sir.”
Llewellyn betrayed his impatience by a slight movement which, however, did not put the other off his pursuit.
“I think you have made that accusation against him more than once. If he is spying, on whose behalf would he be acting?” asked Llewellyn coldly.
“To help any criminal we might be looking for. Although he may not be a thief himself, all his sympathy would be with the thief and the smuggler. If well paid he would not scruple to assist any one of them to escape.”
“Give a dog a bad name——”
Llewellyn did not finish the old tag. The Kuruvas as a tribe had a bad reputation. He continued: “Govind may be open to bribery, I’ll allow. Where is the Indian who is not?”
His thoughts went back to the fugitive hiding in the ruined fort. Following the line his memory had taken, he added: “You think he had something to do with the escape of the man whom we thought was wanted in Mysore for dacoity and murder?”
“I am convinced that assistance was given. The constables were closely watching the fort but the man who was hiding there managed to slip past them. He could not have done it without help of some kind. Govind was the only person who could have given it. He alone knew the paths through the forest.”
“We need not worry ourselves over the case. As it turned out the fugitive was not the man who was wanted. The case is closed.”
Llewellyn began to lock the drawers of his office table, preparatory to closing down for the morning. Maxwell did not take the hint: he had something more to say.
“There has been trouble at a village lower down, not far from the Ghaut road,” he announced.
“What’s the matter? Theft or assault?”
Llewellyn was all attention again.
“This is a case of making magic with malice intent.”
“With what object?”
“To extort money by terrorism.”
“H’m! If that is so then it means an enquiry. What kind of magic has been employed?”
“The headman of the village is laid up with some mysterious illness. He is weakening and seems in a bad way.”
“Is it fever?”
“No, sir. His temperature is down below normal. It looks as if his heart was affected.”
“And his family are of the opinion that it is due to an evil eye that has been turned on him?” asked Llewellyn.
“The evil eye has not been mentioned. A figurine has been dug up in front of the door of his house. It is made of beeswax and it is stuck full of tintacks and pins.”
Llewellyn smiled. He was familiar with these little images. It is a not uncommon method among the people of South India of getting rid of an enemy by terrifying him into an illness that may end fatally. It is a species of blackmail, and the perpetrators render themselves liable to prosecution.
Maxwell opened a small parcel that he had brought with him and took out an extraordinary doll. It was five or six inches long and was crudely moulded in dark beeswax. Over the heart was a group of common pins which were supposed to bring stabbing pains in that region after taking food. A belt of little tintacks round the body were intended to give rise to colic. A larger nail was driven home in the thigh where sciatica might be expected. Tintacks were also generously distributed over the lumbar regions, and a formidable nail was pressed down into the top of the bullet-shaped head. This last was to produce madness.
The result of these pins and tintacks would, in the belief of the unfortunate man and his family, bring him torturing pain. Although the whole village was aware of the presence of the image, no one had ventured to dig it up, because of the terrible curses laid upon the person who should dare to touch it. The inspector himself had been summoned by the village constable to do the deed and unearth the figurine.
If anyone asked why the Englishman could venture to do what no man in the place dared to do, he was told that the devils controlled by men from the West were far stronger than the demons of the East.
The sick man was under the impression that the pins and nails had been removed and the wax image had been burnt in the police office. Secure in that belief he would mend fast.
Maxwell had kept it intact. He desired to show it to his chief before it was destroyed.
“What ridiculous superstitions we are up against in this country,” said Llewellyn as he examined the doll.
“We have faith-healing at home,” replied Maxwell, pleased to range himself as a Briton on the side of his superior officer and speak familiarly of the “home” he had never seen.
“Black magic inverted and made into white magic. Happily the aid of the police is not wanted when the magic is white. Well, now, have you found out who is at the bottom of all this?”
“I have every reason to believe that it is Govind.”
“Govind!” repeated Llewellyn. “What grudge can the old man have against the village headman?”
“It is not a personal grudge. It is a matter of money.”
“In what way?”
“The Kuruva has been paid to do it and paid well. We know that he wants money for his grand-daughter’s wedding. This is a job in which he would receive hard cash and not produce in kind, as is so often the method of paying for such services.”
“Is it known who has employed him?”
“The headman has had a quarrel with the kanakan (accountant) of the village over money matters. The kanakan says that the headman owes him two hundred rupees. The headman persuaded some of the young men to set upon the kanakan and give him a beating.”
“No love lost between the accountant and the villagers,” observed Llewellyn, whose brain was already at work over the intricacies of a case wherein the lying would be stupendous and far-reaching.
“They have a saying, ‘Put out the eyes of a young crow and a kanakan,’” said Maxwell.
“Did anyone see Govind making the wax image?
“I have two men I can bring as witnesses.”
“We had better arrest the kanakan as well as Govind.”
“The kanakan has already run away, and it is said that the Kuruva helped him to escape.”
Llewellyn was looking at the curious figure lying on the table before him. He took a penknife and prized out the pins and nails. Maxwell wrapped the doll in its paper covering.
“I had better keep this till we have got a conviction against the old man,” he said.
“Have you spoken to Govind about it yet?”
“No sir. I shall make the arrest and bring him up before you as soon as I have the witnesses ready to identify him and substantiate the charge. I shall take care to have everything cut and dried before he has a chance of escaping. The old scoundrel will not be able to slip out of it this time.”
“Are you quite sure that Govind is the culprit? He is not the only one of his trade who works magic on these hills.”
“If what the witnesses say is true, we shall be able to convict him.”
Maxwell could not suppress the little note of triumph that displayed itself in his words. Llewellyn made no comment, but he regretted the animosity of the inspector. If, however, Govind had rendered himself liable to arrest by helping the kanakan to intimidate the headman into the payment of a sum of money that was not legally owing, he would have to abide by the consequences.
“Evan! Evan!” cried Joan, as her brother returned to camp a little after sunset.
“Hallo! What’s the matter? A snake in your tent?”
He called for some fresh tea. Joan had taken hers. She never waited for him and on this occasion she had emptied the teapot. The tea was served in the dinner tent with the hurricane lamps alight. After the sun had left the hills the air became chilly in the open glades where there was running water. Joan came to pour out the tea and tell him the news.
“Captain Denning’s tent has arrived, and his lascars and servant.”
“So I see. His man has chosen a good site for pitching it. Yes, please, I’ll have a slice of cake and be liberal with the cutting of it.”
Joan laughed as she replied:
“I hope when you marry that your wife will be a good hand at cake-making.”
“I am not marrying just yet,” he answered, thinking rather bitterly of his passage of arms with Nancy. “What’s your letter about?”
“That very person herself. It’s from Nancy.”
“It didn’t come by post, did it?”
“No, or I should have shown it to you at lunch. It was brought by Captain Denning’s servant.”
“Well?” ejaculated Llewellyn, trying to curb his curiosity. “What does the little demoiselle want with us?”
He passed his cup to be refilled.
“She says that she is coming up with Jack, as she calls him, to-morrow morning, and she will be very grateful if I will send my pony for her to the Ghaut road. She wants to finish the visit which was cut short by her mother recalling her.”
“Lucky we didn’t return the cot to headquarters. It’s in your tent still?”
“Yes. She takes it for granted that we can put her up and that I will share my tent with her,” observed Joan, who was not looking pleased at the prospect.
She was wondering what Nancy’s object was in inviting herself while Denning was their guest. A similar query was revolving in Llewellyn’s mind. Why was the girl coming? And what was her mother about to allow her to join Denning when he was avowedly starting on a shooting expedition?
Joan concluded that the little minx intended to keep her eye on her Jack and make sure that he did not flirt with her. Evan was of the same opinion. Nancy had fallen so deeply in love with her dancing-partner that she could not bear to let him go out of her sight. The brother and sister could not help regretting her decision. Her presence would spoil Denning’s shoot. Even the flocks of pigeons would hide themselves and be mute in their green bowers with her chaff and constant chatter going on.
After a prolonged silence, during which Evan disposed of a second slice of cake and a third cup of tea, he said:
“It seems to me that she has chosen an inconvenient time to complete her visit, but we have no choice in the matter. We are without telegraph or telephone up here. I might send a peon but he could not be in time to do more than stop her on the Ghaut road and turn her back.”
“If she is determined to come nothing on earth will stop her,” said Joan. “And it would be very awkward for Captain Denning, as well as hurt their feelings. We must accept the situation and make the best of it. I daresay she will keep us all alive. She is very amusing and good-natured. Don’t forget to give the order about my pony.”
“They will be up here about ten, in time for a late breakfast,” said Llewellyn, as he left the tea table.
He went towards his sleeping tent, where a hot bath and a change of clothes awaited him, the best revivers a tired man can take in India after a long day’s work.
Joan had to find sheets and pull out blankets from tin-lined cases to be aired on bamboo cages over charcoal fires. She had willing servants to do her bidding, but after having given her orders it was necessary to see that they were properly carried out.
It was not until she retired to bed that she had time to think over this strange move on Nancy’s part. Quite unconsciously Joan had been looking forward to Denning’s visit. Evan would be absorbed in his work, and the guest would be left for her to entertain. Sport of course came first: the jungle would claim a great part of his time, but he could not be big-game shooting morning, noon and night. There were no waterholes, as in the low country, to attract him. The only night shooting possible would be to sit up over a kill, and that was not an everyday occurrence.
This should have meant long pleasant evenings in camp chairs, just the three of them, she and Denning doing the talking, Evan listening and probably dozing. Why must Nancy butt in? It could only have one meaning, jealousy and a watch over the one man who mattered. Were they engaged?
She made up her mind that she would have it out with Nancy and learn exactly how matters stood between the two. If Nancy had a claim on Denning and was first and foremost with him, then she, Joan, would stand aside. She would tolerate no rivalry. Hospitable and pleasant she would be, as pleasant as you please, but Captain Denning must not expect anything more. She was not going to play second fiddle to the flighty little demoiselle, who seemed to look on hearts as shuttlecocks, to be tossed hither and thither at the whim of the player.
She wondered how Evan was feeling. She had not been blind to the flirtation that had been carried on during Nancy’s first visit. Evan was attracted. Whether he was seriously hit she could not say. He was not given to philandering. There had been something more between them than “passing the time.” As she considered the situation she was not sorry that he would have an opportunity of seeing for himself how youthful and schoolgirlish Nancy was in her dealings with men.
Would Nancy make a suitable wife for her brother? In some respects she would. Her vivacity would help to make him socially popular. A man with a popular wife in India, a wife who knew how to maintain her dignity as well as amuse and attract, was helped on in his career. Evan, with his natural shyness—— Here she fell asleep and did not wake till the birds were stirring at dawn in the foliage that shaded her tent.
The brother and sister were early risers, and Llewellyn was in his office tent betimes on the following morning. He was anxious to get the office business cleared away before the arrival of his guests. He had glanced at Denning’s tent and found everything ready for its occupant. He left his sister to see to the accommodation of Nancy.
He seated himself at his writing-table, which was placed in the shadow of the fly of the tent.
The inspector came up with a quick business-like tread. He wore his uniform with his habitual smartness, and his manner was brisk and assured. He took up a position on the right hand of his superior officer just inside the tent. A chair had been placed ready for his use should he require it. He pushed it back as though he considered it unnecessary.
Govind arrived under escort in charge of a constable. He was not at his ease. As soon as he found himself face to face with Llewellyn he made the usual deep salaam. An expression of fear that had haunted his eyes faded, and confidence returned in the certain knowledge that he would receive justice from the Englishman. He must be patient, even if the inspector was prejudiced against him and brought false charges.
But beneath the stolid exterior anger burnt hotly. He was aware of the crime with which he was to be charged, and so far no one would heed his denial of it. His anger was directed against the inspector. It was Maxwell who was bringing the accusation against him with the determination of getting rid of him from the camp.
Under the guidance of the constables came two villagers of the usual type of Malabar agriculturist. They were dressed in clean cotton coats such as were only worn on high days and festivals. Both were trembling with a vague fear for which there was no foundation.
They cast anxious glances at Llewellyn. Although they had been assured that their presence was only required to identify and give evidence, they could not conquer their apprehensions. They believed that unlimited power rested in the hands of the white man. He could send them both to jail if he pleased, or, what would be worse in their opinion, he could fine them and make them pay a sum of money far beyond their means. Long centuries of oppression had bred fear and distrust in their hearts which it took more than two or three generations to eradicate.
The usual examination began. One of the witnesses was pushed forward and he was asked for his name, his occupation and the name of the village where he lived. To these questions he replied readily and without hesitation.
“You saw this man, Govind, near the house of the headman who has been lying sick?” asked Llewellyn.
“Yes, your honour.”
“Was he alone?”
“No, sir. He had a man of his tribe with him.”
“What were they doing?”
“Sitting by the roadside, talking.”
“What were they talking about?”
“Govind was bargaining with the other man over a lump of beeswax.”
“How do you know?”
“I stopped to listen. The other Kuruva bought the wax for ten annas.”
“Did you hear anything else?”
“No, sir,” the witness replied apologetically. “I couldn’t stay. I was in a hurry to milk my buffaloes.”
While the evidence was being taken Govind stood motionless by the side of the constable in whose charge he was. His eyes were still fixed on the inspector, who was closely following all that was being said. Llewellyn looked at the prisoner and said:
“Old father of the forest, you are charged with making a wax doll, sticking it full of nails and pins, and of burying it before the house of the headman. It was done with the purpose of causing him to be ill.”
Govind withdrew his eyes from Maxwell as he replied:
“No, sir. I did not make the figure, and I never put nails and pins in it.”
“But I say you did,” cried Maxwell, coming out of a temporary abstraction as the Kuruva’s eyes left his face.
The seer remained silent and his gaze concentrated again on the inspector.
After more questions, Llewellyn ordered the witness to move away and the other one to be brought. The second had less to tell than the first. He denied all knowledge of the facts that Maxwell was so anxious to prove. He admitted that he knew Govind personally, but swore that he had not seen him near the village in question, nor in the company of the strange Kuruva.
Llewellyn was prepared for an outburst of annoyance from Maxwell but it did not come. He stood upright and was gazing at the old man with a strange expression.
Evan put a few more questions to the witnesses but could elicit nothing from either of them that could incriminate Govind. He was puzzled. He turned to Maxwell.
“This is very odd, inspector. If these men have nothing else to tell us, we have no case against Govind.”
“No, sir,” replied Maxwell.
“Have you any more witnesses to bring?”
“No, sir.”
“We ought to have evidence to the effect that Govind was seen preparing the image and burying it at the spot where it was found.”
There was no reply. Llewellyn continued: “I don’t understand it. You had better refer to your notes, inspector, and let me hear what you put down at the time.”
Maxwell turned over the leaves of his note-book in a bewildered manner as though his memory was at fault and he did not know what he was doing. He seemed incapable of reading his notes. His eyes, which had been upon the prisoner, wandered round with the furtive glance of a wild animal that was looking for some means of escape.
In the middle of his uneasy movements he suddenly put his hand to his side and without any attempt at disguising the action, he scratched himself violently. Llewellyn stared at him in blank astonishment.
The inspector’s neat dress and smart appearance were not suggestive of the necessity for such an action. It was not a surreptitious rubbing of the spot. It was a violent scratching.
Llewellyn thought it best to take no notice. He continued addressing his officer:
“You called these men up, on certain information you obtained, and questioned them. Isn’t that so?”
Maxwell ceased flagellating the irritating flea and resumed the turning of the leaves of his note-book. He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other and looked nervously at the Kuruva.
“And these men,” continued Llewellyn in a raised voice, “I understood you to say, saw Govind in company with the second Kuruva, whom you have not been able to secure. The two Kuruvas appeared to be busy forming an image out of beeswax. Kindly tell me if that is so.”
The inspector remained silent as though deprived of the power of speech. He made an effort to speak but the sounds that proceeded from his throat were of the nature of grunts rather than articulated words. His eyes moved restlessly, returning constantly to the figure of the seer, who continued standing motionless on the spot assigned to him at the opening of the enquiry.
Maxwell abruptly seated himself on the chair that had been placed for his use should he require it. The note-book fell from his hands. He made no attempt to recover it.
A dead silence held the assembly as if it had suddenly come under a spell. By some psychological means the air was charged with an uncanny stillness that was making itself felt. It affected the nerves of all present. Even Llewellyn himself was sensible of a kind of mental paralysis that was obstructing thought as well as action. The eyes of the constables were fixed apprehensively on the Kuruva, and the men scarcely dared to breathe. They more than suspected that he was exercising his occult powers. The dread of what he might do to any one of those present held them under a spell of real terror.
Llewellyn glanced round at the various people who were assembled before him. The two witnesses had vainly tried to escape but, finding themselves up against a constable whichever way they turned, abandoned the attempt and resigned themselves to their fate. In the outer ring that semi-circled the opening of the tent, peons, servants and every camp-follower of the establishment had gathered. The news that the Kuruva, their own seer and magician, was a prisoner in the hands of the police had spread. A certain amount of anxiety was felt lest evil should befall their mascot and they should be deprived of his beneficent presence.
Something must be done, thought Llewellyn, to break the strange hypnotic spell that was being woven like an intangible web over the company.
He turned sharply to his bewildered officer, who seemed to have forgotten the very existence of his chief.
“Inspector Maxwell!” he cried in loud tones that were intended to penetrate the mental fog in which the man was enveloped.
Maxwell recognised his voice and the authority behind it. The unfortunate inspector started. His jaw fell, leaving his mouth open. An expression of fear passed over his face and he shrank away from Llewellyn as though he expected a blow. With an effort he pulled himself together.
His eyes returned to the Kuruva. This was fatal. It brought him again under the influence of the old man’s occult powers. Once more Maxwell lapsed into the simian complexity of character. Llewellyn’s annoyance increased. He was irritated with him for succumbing to the Kuruva’s wiles, but he was even more angry with Govind for daring to play such tricks.
Then an extraordinary incident happened. Maxwell passed his fingers up his arm as though the limb was bare and made a quick movement of unmistakable import. He apparently caught the object that was irritating his skin. He examined it with close scrutiny, put it to his teeth and bit it.
“Pick up your note-book, inspector, and read what you wrote at the time,” said Llewellyn raising his voice as if he was speaking to a man who was deaf.
A constable stepped forward and retrieved the notebook. He held it out at arm’s length to the owner as though he feared that the inspector might bite. The book was seized with a low growl that might have come from some four-legged beast instead of a human being.
Maxwell began to tear out the leaves deliberately one by one with inarticulate sounds. The leaves were thrown upon the ground while he looked round suspiciously, first on one side, then on the other, as if he was prepared to resist violence of any kind.
Still seated on the chair he drew up one foot till it rested on the seat. The other foot was lifted more slowly. If his well-polished shoes and smart silk socks had not hidden his toes, the astounded company would have expected to see them clinging to the edge of the chair.
His position was hardly human; his behaviour was anything but human. Each minute that passed he deteriorated, developing simian characteristics one after another and displaying tricks that belonged to the monkey tribe.
Although he still wore the spotless uniform of the force, Maxwell had merged mentally into the ancestral ape. To increase the likeness he scratched himself again, pulled open his tunic and searched for fleas. Llewellyn remembered having seen the counterpart of the action as he had watched a colony of the little people in the jungle. It gave him a shock as certainty took the place of suspicion. Something must be done and done quickly to break the spell.
The old man was standing with the rigidity of a statue on the spot where he had been placed by his guard. He had not stirred. The ragged blanket hung over his shoulders as though he had been dressed by a farmer to keep the crows from a field of wheat. A red rag was twisted over his head and in his hand was the ferruled bamboo stick without which he was rarely seen.
His deep-set eyes were still fixed with a steady purposeful gaze on Maxwell, who was becoming increasingly uneasy and restless.
The constables were watching their inspector squatting monkey fashion on the chair, hunting for fleas in imaginary fur. A dawning of terror was on the face of every one of them as though they were dreading a similar fate.
Llewellyn glanced round and recognised the panic which was shaking them. He knew enough of the subject of hypnotism to be aware that nothing but a shock, a severe shock could break the spell that was being woven and release his men from their obsession. He feared that in another ten minutes he would be presiding over an assemblage of apes. The means must be drastic and unexpected.
He quietly opened one of the drawers of his writing-table and drew out his automatic. With a sharp sudden movement he fired it over the heads of his men.
The effect was electrical and startling. Maxwell awoke out of his dream with a bound that took him out of the chair. He stood smartly at attention, his eyes no longer held by the Kuruva but turned on his chief. At the same time he recovered his voice.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said pathetically, “I am not feeling well. It is my head. Yesterday I was out in the midday sun. It seems to have affected me——”
He passed his hand over his eyes as though he was still suffering from confusion of his senses and was bewildered.
“Go to your tent, inspector and lie down,” said Llewellyn, kindly. He was sorry for the man. He signed to the constable who had picked up the notebook and handed it back to the inspector. He also had the manner of one who had been roused out of a nightmare. “Help Inspector Maxwell to his tent. Pick up the leaves which have fallen out of the book and carry them with you.”
He turned to another bewildered constable.
“Tell those men from the village that they may go home. No charge will be brought against them. The clerk will pay what is due for their attendance. If they are required here again I will send for them.” To the rest he gave orders that they were to return to their several duties. The constable who was guarding the prisoner was also told to go. The company disappeared with an alacrity that showed their relief at being allowed to escape from the highly charged atmosphere of the camp. The servants and camp-followers, who had crept up full of curiosity, keeping out of sight of the master, slipped hastily back to the vicinity of the kitchen tent, the centre of gossip. They squatted on their heels to discuss in hoarse whispers the awesome experiences of the morning.
Only the Kuruva remained, waiting for the word of dismissal from the big police master, a word that did not come.
Llewellyn looked across his table at the familiar figure, and there was silence. They were alone.
“Old father of the forest,” he said at length. “Is this well done? Have I not always been your friend? and now you bring shame on my inspector.”
Govind for once in his life had the grace to look abashed. His eyes blinked and his hands twitched.
“Swami! Excellency! He would have sent me to prison if he had spoken. I do not deserve it. This worthless worm asks for mercy, Swami.”
He placed the palms of his hands together and bowed his head in supplication. Llewellyn’s eyes rested on him gravely as he repeated the accusation that had been brought against him. He concluded with the words:
“You have tried to kill the headman of Kalivitri by means of a wax figure.”
“No, sir!” protested Govind.
“Into which you have stuck pins and nails.”
“No, sir!”
“But I say you have, and it is accounted as an attempt to murder.”
“Excellency! This poor old man never made the image and never put pins and nails in it.”
Llewellyn looked at him with keen enquiry.
“If you did not make the image——” he paused and then added, “who made it?”
Govind considered for a few seconds and decided that with the Englishman it might be better to stick to the truth.
“Your honour, I will tell true word only.”
“You know who made the figure?”
“It was done by a Coorg man.”
“Of your tribe?”
“A Kuruva, your honour, very strong and very powerful.”
This was Govind’s story. The strange Kuruva had been down to the coast by arrangement to lay a spell on a fishing-boat the joint owners of which had quarrelled, and he was returning to Coorg. He stopped for the night at Kalivitri. The kanakan, hearing of his arrival, engaged him to make the image that was found buried before the headman’s door. Govind happened to be there. He sold the requisite beeswax to the Coorg magician and received ten annas for it as one of the witnesses had stated.
“Did you help to make the image?”
“No, sir. No one may touch or speak when the worker of spells is busy. A big noise spoils the magic, as master knows.”
A faint echo of reproach sounded in these last words. Was it not the sudden discharge of the pistol that had broken the spell which Govind was putting on the inspector?
“How much money was given to the Coorg Kuruva?”
“Five rupees your honour.”
“And how much did you receive for the wax?”
“Only ten annas.”
“Did you help him to bury the image?”
“No, sir. No one may touch. No one may help.”
“What did you do then?”
“After giving the wax I watched the Coorg Kuruva working. He is a clever man.”
“Cleverer than you?” asked Llewellyn, wondering if the old man would admit it after the recent display of spell-making.
“Much cleverer,” was the unexpected reply.
“You should have told the police. By looking on and saying nothing, you made yourself a partner in the offence.”
“I gave no help, sir!” exclaimed Govind, who could not see that he had broken the law by selling beeswax to be used for an illegal purpose and by watching a more skilful fellow-worker at his labours.
“Did you help the kanakan to escape?”
“No, sir. The other Kuruva gave all the help that was needed.”
There was no case against Govind in the matter of making the figurine. The headman had recovered from his illness and his fright; the prime mover in the attempt to obtain money by intimidation had disappeared, and the Kuruva, who had assisted him, had retired to his home in the Coorg jungles, where he was safe from capture.
Llewellyn had no intention of pursuing the criminal, as he might have done had the victim died. There had been no violence, no assault. It had only been a case of playing on the nerves of a superstitious subject. The headman had shown some obstinacy and had refused to pay the sum demanded by the village accountant. Therefore no money had passed under the stress of the supposed spell.
The point that troubled Llewellyn was the hypnotic influence that had been brought to bear on Maxwell and had caused him to appear ridiculous and undignified before the men who were under his authority.
“Sir, this poor old man gave no help to the kanakan. Your Excellency will let me go back to my village, Swami? I am innocent!”
Again the hands met in supplication.
“That is a matter of opinion,” said Llewellyn more to himself than to the Kuruva.
He remained silent for a few minutes. Even though Govind had escaped the charge of blackmail he deserved some sort of punishment for his trickery. It could be done without having recourse to the law.
“Go!” he said sternly. “Leave the camp. You must learn to let my men alone, or I shall be obliged to send you to prison. You understand?”
“I go, your honour,” was the humble reply.
“You are not to return to the camp until this moon has passed away. It is half full now.”
“Master, please!”
“When there is a new moon in the sky I may possibly have forgiven you, but not till then.”
“Your honour will not send me to prison!” pleaded Govind. “Or let the inspector catch me again?”
The old man was uneasy in his mind as to what Maxwell might do when he had recovered from the magic spell. He would doubtless be very angry.
“You are safe if you do not attempt to frighten sick men to death or take away the senses of any of my men.”
Govind stood for a moment looking at Llewellyn as a dog in disgrace—that has been threatened with the whip—watches his wrathful master. He made another salaam and would have prostrated himself at Llewellyn’s feet if the office table had not been in the way. Once more the Englishman spoke. He was anxious to get rid of the old man before his own heart softened and he forgave him. He knew that the punishment would be felt severely. Banishment from the camp would deprive Govind of a source of interest and amusement for nearly three weeks. At the end of that time the camp in the ordinary routine would be moved to a fresh centre. Although still in the hills it would be ten miles from its present site and fifteen from Govind’s domicile.
“Go!” Llewellyn commanded at length. “Go! and don’t let me see you again till the new moon.”
“As master’s honour pleases,” replied Govind submissively.
The old man salaamed and turned away. He went towards the jungle and vanished into its depths like one of the shy birds whose instinct had taught it to keep out of the sight of man.
The people of the camp, police and servants, down to the imp who kept up the cooking fires, noted the departure of the seer. Not one of them regarded the dismissal with indifference. Ears had been strained to hear what had passed. One or two of the constables had caught the word “Go!” They knew what it meant. For three weeks they were to live without the old man. Would he take offence and withdraw his benign influence, allowing all kinds of accidents to happen to the various members of the camp? Had the big master done a rash thing in banishing their mascot? They did not actually speak of him as a protector. They knew nothing of mascots, although he stood for something similar in their eyes.
The gloom that was settling down on them like a miasma was suddenly lifted and apprehensive forebodings were scattered by the sound of voices raised in cheerful greetings. Denning and Nancy rode up to the camp.
Nancy threw herself out of the saddle with a wild hurrah! The uneven ground formed a bad landing for her and she narrowly escaped making a spread-eagle of herself on the rough grass. She pulled herself together and rushed at Joan with open arms. Then, turning she flew towards Llewellyn as he issued from the office tent. Her arms were extended as though she intended to repeat the embrace she had given to his sister.
With a rising colour he prepared to receive what was coming and make the best of it but-she stopped abruptly as she reached him.
“Evan! I forget! Are we cuts, or chums or bosom friends?”
“All three if you like. I’ll suit my stride to yours.”
“Darling! I knew you would say something thrilling.”
In a more leisurely fashion Denning dismounted. He followed Nancy and grasped Joan’s hand.
“This is very good of you, Miss Llewellyn, to allow me”—he hesitated and she wondered why he used the pronoun “me” instead of “us”—“to pay you and your brother a visit.”
“We are delighted to see you both—both.”
She repeated the last word with emphasis. He showed signs of embarrassment.
“Miss Kingsbury—Nancy—proposed to avail herself of my escort and come too,” he said a little stiffly.
“And why not?” said Joan genially. “It was a happy thought that you should come together.”
He appeared still more uncomfortable and was preparing to explain, when Evan, who had extricated himself from Nancy’s effusions, joined his sister.
“I have seen to your tent, Denning. I hope you will find everything comfortable. I’m sorry that you had to send up camp kit but we have only our own tents——”
“That’s all right,” interposed Denning. “I had no difficulty in finding all that I wanted in our stores.”
His servant came forward with the information that the bath was ready.
“As soon as you have taken it we will have breakfast,” said Joan.
Nancy rushed at Denning with her customary impulsiveness and took his arm.
“Come along, Jack. I must see you to your kennel,” she cried.
Joan smiled, for Denning looked as if some wood nymph had caught him and he was at his wit’s end to know how to extricate himself. She took pity on him. Catching Nancy by the arm she led her off in the direction of her own tent.
“Now, my dear, you have no time to waste. I shall not wait breakfast for you. I give you twenty minutes. I’ve got a scrumptious tiffin ready, teal and snipe, mango fool, wild honey and chocolate trifle.”
Later, as they sat together in the shade after the excellent breakfast-lunch, there was much talk about Denning’s prospects of sport and the direction in which he was likely to find the big game that he hoped to kill.
Then they dispersed, the two girls to rest in long camp chairs, the two men to their separate tents. Llewellyn had letters to write. Denning was anxious to look at his rifles to see if they were in trim order after their journey.
They gathered again for tea, which was laid in the deep shade of one of the forest trees. When it was finished Joan turned to Denning with the query:
“What would you like to do? Do you want to shoot pigeons?”
Her eyes passed from him to Nancy who, however, had nothing to say.
“I’ll wait till to-morrow morning for that.”
“You will be wise. The birds have fed and they are going to roost presently. They hide themselves deep in the thick foliage and it is impossible to flush them.”
“I should like a walk,” he said.
She looked at Nancy. “You would enjoy a stroll, wouldn’t you? You have been here before, Nancy, and can show Captain Denning the way.”
“Thanks!” replied Nancy shortly. “Nothing doing! You may bear-lead him, Joan, for once in a way. He won’t bite.”
“You little wretch!” replied Denning with a laugh. “What are you going to do?”
“Stop here with Evan and give him a long list of your sins and shortcomings. You didn’t speak a dozen words as we rode up this morning.”
“How could I talk when you were ten yards in front of me? I thought it as well that your little tongue should have a rest.” He turned to Joan. “Miss Llewellyn, will you come with me and show me the way? I don’t want to get lost.”
“You won’t be missed if you are, dear,” said Nancy from her camp chair as Denning moved away.
“Don’t go too far, Joan,” counselled Evan.
Rama, remembering his duties with regard to the missie, followed the couple at a respectful distance. Joan caught sight of him. She turned.
“I shall not want you, Rama. Captain Denning will see that I am safe.”
The constable stopped, obedient but not satisfied. He went back to the kitchen tent and once more joined in the discussion of the wonderful events of the morning.
Evan sat up and looked after his sister. Nancy was regarding him with twinkling eyes.
“Well, darling! does it meet with your approval?” she said after a short silence.
“What?” he asked puzzled.
“Do you think that you will like Jack as a brother-in-law?”
“I’ll consider the question when it crops up.”
“He’s a very good fellow.”
“I know he is and the knowledge reconciles me to what is coming.”
“That’s all right. Bring your chair nearer, Evan. That’s better,” she said as he placed it as close as it would go to hers.
“Nancy, will you tell me something?” he asked as they settled down.
“If I can. What is it?”
“When are you going to be married?”
“That depends. When do you think you will be able to get leave?”
“Leave is due to me as soon as I like to apply for it. But what on earth has that got to do with the question I asked you?”
“Everything, darling,” she replied softly, and this time there was something in the low-spoken “darling” that sent a thrill through him.
“It’s Denning’s leave that matters.”
“To Joan, not to me.”
She leaned towards him—their chairs were touching—and dropped her head on his shoulder. Her curls were like silk against his cheek.
“That is to say if Joan says yes. He is going to ask her during their walk.”
“He told you so!” he cried incredulously.
“Wrong again, old dear. It was I who told him to be sure to ask her to marry him. He was to do it this very afternoon before his attention was taken up by the shooting. I impressed it on him just before we arrived in camp.”
“Nancy! You are fooling me!” cried Evan.
“Think so, darling?”
Her face was towards him. Her lips were within reach. He had sense enough to take advantage of the situation and to do the obvious.
Nancy had told Evan nothing but the unvarnished truth when she said that Denning was going to propose to Joan at her instigation. She had been amazingly plain-spoken with Denning. Perhaps he had needed no prompting. Her advice was in accordance with his desire. She may have hastened it on in her own interests. Their friendship over games and dancing had never for a moment been misleading to themselves, whatever impressions may have been formed in the minds of their observant friends.
It had been great fun to Nancy, and a little embarrassing to Denning, when leading questions had been asked and nods and winks had been intercepted. When she proposed that she should accompany him to the camp, he had stared at her in dismay. She took him into her confidence and explained the object of her visit. She must come to some understanding with Evan. He had proposed to her. Denning lifted his eyebrows. Yes, he had, she repeated with a touch of impatience, and she had not yet given him his answer. She wanted to see him before he forgot all about it.
Denning burst into a laugh for which he apologised.
He could not conceive of any man letting such a thing as a proposal of marriage slip from his memory. He ventured to ask if the reply was to be in the negative or the affirmative. Nancy asked indignantly if it was likely that she would go all that way just to say no? She intended to say yes, and concluded with the observation that she thought that there would be some fun to be got out of it.
Denning asked if her mother would allow her to go up to the camp with him? Nancy replied unblushingly that she intended to give the facts a bit of a twist and lead Mrs. Kingsbury to suppose that Joan had repeated her invitation and suggested that she should take advantage of his escort. The first visit had been abruptly cut short by Nancy’s recall to home duties. Here was an opportunity to finish it.
Denning informed Nancy that he took no responsibility, assuring her that it was her “bundobust” and not his. She turned upon him with the charge of being in love himself. He was in love with Joan. She had seen it coming on for some time past. The only way to cure the trouble was for them to come to an understanding as soon as possible, as she intended to do with Evan. It was the only course that would relieve the strain as he would find.
There had been no preliminaries in Joan’s case, and Denning was not so certain of success as Nancy was with Evan.
It was with great satisfaction that the little schemer watched the couple disappear in the forest.
“Where shall we go?” he asked after Joan had dismissed her faithful attendant.
“Anywhere you like,” replied Joan.
Let’s choose a nice broad path where we need not walk Indian file.”
“Do you want a climb?”
“I should prefer a fairly level track.”
“We will take the path that runs under the cliff: it leads to one of the villages.”
“You must show the way-Joan.”
She laughed, and the colour mounted to her cheek as he made use of her name.
They followed a well beaten track—for a forest path—that took them into the depths of the jungle. The sun was in the west but still above the horizon. The foliage grew denser and closed over their heads. Great creepers festooned the branches, and long fronds of rank tropical ferns almost hid the boulders among which they grew. In far off ages these huge fragments of rock had been hurled from the ramparts above by some geological cataclysm.
Denning came up level with his companion and put his hand on her arm. The path gave them very little room to spare but this they did not mind.
“Do you know why our little demoiselle has come?” he asked.
“To keep an eye upon you perhaps,” replied Joan a little uncertainly. She was not an expert at personalities like Nancy.
Denning glanced at her in surprise.
“Why should she want to keep me under observation?” he asked.
“Aren’t you engaged to each other?”
“No, nor likely to be. Nancy is my very good little partner but—well—there it ends.”
“Oh! I beg your pardon!” exclaimed Joan in confusion.
“Don’t apologise. You are like the rest of the world. It has been a great joke the way she and I have been paired off.”
Joan walked on. Her confusion caused her to quicken her pace unconsciously. Denning’s hand closed a little more firmly over her arm. As she made no comment he continued:
“But I assure you that there is nothing in it. It’s pure gossip.”
They arrived at a stream that poured in silver threads over a perpendicular rock eight or nine feet high. It formed a pool at the foot and flowed smoothly for a short distance before it foamed over a bed of boulders, splashing begonia, wild ginger and beautiful ferns on its way.
A golden light illuminated the roof of foliage under which they were passing. Very little of the sky was visible.
“Joan! There’s only one woman in the world for me!”
Like the silvery stream as it burst from the pool at the foot of the cascade, his words poured into her ears. She listened with a beating heart. Her tongue failed but her eyes said enough to satisfy him.
His hand was removed from her arm to her waist and he drew her closer. They strolled along, crossing streams by age-old stepping-stones. They pushed past luxuriant bushes that were beginning to close their blossoms for the night. Sometimes their way sloped gently upwards. Then it meandered down into dells carpeted with delicate ferns and long grasses.
The tale that Denning had to tell seemed to have no ending. They passed on without ever a thought of where they were going.
The sun, after a blaze of golden glory, sank behind the Indian Ocean. In a few minutes the flare of the sunset died away. It was like the turning down of some gigantic lamp. It was followed by the magic of the afterglow when nature shone in the vivid colours of an exquisite enamel. The ethereal illumination swept upwards. It forsook the crowns of the forest giants and lingered for a few minutes round the peaks and spurs of the Western Ghauts. Then it died away, leaving behind it the grey gloom that is called twilight.
A tawny owl fluttered past them as it pursued a large strong-winged sphinx moth. It was startled by the presence of strangers in its familiar haunts and uttered a strangled shriek of protest and warning. In the distance a monkey sentinel, settling for the night in a tree with its companions, responded to the warning cry with its call of, “hoo-hoo” and passed on the signal to all whom it might concern.
Joan came out of a dream with a start and Denning awoke to the realities of his surroundings.
“Hallo, darling! Where are we? We ought to be turning back. It’s getting late,” he exclaimed.
They stopped and faced the other way. The path, unobserved by either of them, had narrowed as they walked and was less well marked. They had drawn closer together and had not noticed it in their deep absorption. They quickened their steps. Every minute that passed, the jungle seemed to grow denser and darker. The fragments of sky visible overhead faded to a steely grey which deepened as the last remaining reflection of the sunlight disappeared.
“We must hurry,” said Joan, as she looked behind her and then tried to pierce the leafy labyrinth. “I don’t recognise this part of the track. It’s narrower than any we have been along.”
“That’s because the sun has set and the light is going,” replied Denning.
“Come along, Jack. We mustn’t wait,” she cried, startled by a sudden suspicion.
“Not that way, darling!” he said. “You will be going back on your tracks.”
“Shall I?” she answered incredulously. “No, this is the way. I am sure I am right.”
“You know the forest, I don’t,” he replied, convinced, however, that she was wrong.
He linked his arm in hers and they started off along what was nothing but a game track. With her experience of the forest she soon recognised it as such. Game tracks lead away from the haunts of men. They go to the feeding grounds and drinking pools of the wild animals. She stopped and placed a trembling hand on his.
“I—I—oh, Jack! I have lost the way!”
“Nonsense, dearest! You can’t really have lost the way. We must be within reach of the camp.”
“Yes, if we only knew which way to go,” she answered miserably. “If we follow the wrong path it will be a hopeless job——”
They moved on; this time he took the lead.
“It’s getting so dark,” she continued. “In another ten minutes we shan’t be able to see five yards in front of us.”
They continued to walk, taking the risk of going out of their way rather than staying buried in the depths of that thick vegetation. At the end of twenty minutes they were suddenly brought to a halt by a wall of rock. The track merged into an open space which was fenced in with a dense thicket of jungle, so dense that it would be impossible to pass through it without hacking out every step of the way. The vegetation grew round three sides of the space. On the fourth was the cliff towering up perpendicularly above them. The spot was a lair where at some period a herd of deer had taken shelter during the day from the hot sun.
By this time Joan was conscious of a sinking of the heart. She had heard tales of people being lost in the jungle, some of them at no great distance from home. Even in broad daylight only a person with knowledge of the forest could find his way out of it if he left the beaten path. The innumerable game tracks are confusing. It is difficult to tell the points of the compass. The eddying breezes that brush the tops of the trees are misleading as well as the clouds—if there are any. Clouds on the hills either float away at sunrise or condense in the valleys into great masses.
In her agitation she paced round the boundary of the lair looking for an exit. She had lost the small opening by which they had entered and could not find it again. At a point where the foliage was a little less obstructive she began to push her way.
“I have found the path I think,” she called to Denning, who was standing close to the rocky wall where she had left him. He dashed after her just as she was disappearing from view and laid his hand on her shoulder.
“Come back, Joan!” he cried. “If you rush blindly into that thick jungle we shall get separated. It is absolutely necessary that we should keep close together.”
His tone was serious, and she recognised a note of command in it as he drew her to the spot where he had been standing. It was dry and free from vegetation. An overhanging shelf of rock that jutted out of the face of the cliff formed a kind of shelter from rain, keeping the ground immediately beneath it dry.
“What are we to do?” cried Joan.
“Keep our heads, my dear,” he replied calmly. “We must stay here till Llewellyn misses us and realises the fact that we are lost. He will send his men out to look for us.”
Joan turned to him and pulled herself together. He gave her time to recover.
“We mustn’t waste time like this,” he said presently. “If we have to spend some hours here we must make ourselves as comfortable as we can. Let’s choose a spot where the ground is smooth enough to sit upon.”
In the dying twilight they cleared away the stones and fragments of rock that strewed the place.
“What about snakes?” he asked.
“They are not likely to trouble us. They would want more shelter.”
“We must litter down our seats with branches and leaves.”
They moved along the edge of the jungle and gathered armfuls of twigs and ferns and any grass that they could find. The foliage served to lessen the hardness of their seat.
“I am afraid we shall be late for dinner,” observed Joan presently.
“We shall be lucky if we are only late,” replied Denning, as he packed yet more foliage at Joan’s back. “How’s that for a cushion?”
“Not so bad,” she replied trying to throw a little cheerfulness into her words. But it was difficult, as self-reproach and regret stirred within her. “How stupid of me to lose the way. Evan and I have often taken this path for a stroll because it does not mean a stiff climb.”
“The climb was gentle. I think we went up more than we went down.”
“I ought to have discovered that I was going wrong as soon as I found that we were not coming to the streams and the stepping-stones.”
“We were both thinking too much of something else,” he answered.
Having made her as comfortable as he could, he now attended to his own resting place. Presently as she leaned against the rock at her back she felt his shoulder pressing her own. His hand sought hers.
“If only I had a rug for you!” he said.
“We shan’t be cold. We’re sheltered from the wind.”
“What about the dew or a shower?”
“I don’t think we need fear either. If a shower had been brewing we should have had it just after sunset,” said Joan. She added in a voice of deep regret: “It’s the dinner I’m considering. I had thought out such a nice menu, with some of the best tit-bits from my stores. No food! no wine! not even a humble whiskey and soda for you, you poor thing!”
“And no dessert and no coffee!” he added.
“And no Benedictine and no smokes!” she continued.
The chorus of lamentation was suddenly checked.
“Yes! I’ve got plenty of smokes, enough to last me all night. You don’t smoke, if I remember right, so they won’t be of any use to you, worse luck!”
“They will keep off the mosquitoes and other jungle beasties of that sort.”
“By the by, what about the moon?” he asked. “It ought to be rising before long.”
“It’s not full, but it will be better than nothing,” she replied dispiritedly.
“I can scarcely see you, darling. Are you really there?”
She turned her face to him and gave him proof that she was “really there.”
The afternoon slipped away unnoticed by Llewellyn and Nancy. They were absorbed in themselves and their own affairs, which were of little interest to the outer world.
The golden sunset had been equally lavish with its glowing colours in the glade as in the forest. The display was arresting. But no one in camp took any notice of the passing pageant.
Among the constables and peons there was one subject that never lost its attraction. It was discussed again and again. This was the strange behaviour of the inspector. Every individual who was present saw for himself what took place.
Their superior officer had been placed under a spell by the Kuruva, a bad spell from which only the assistant superintendent himself could set him free. The Englishman shot the devil that was weaving the spell at the command of the Kuruva.
The discovery of the figurine was forgotten in the contemplation of the revenge taken by the old man on the inspector, who had brought a charge against him that might possibly result in imprisonment. At any time Govind might do the same to one or other of their number who happened to give offence.
The camp staff, from cook to kitchen boy, were also concerned for their own welfare. They, too, had adopted the Kuruva as their mascot and believed with the constables and peons that he preserved the community from ill-luck.
The sentence of banishment was pronounced as we have seen, and the big master withdrew.
Govind moved sadly away towards the forest. Rama placed himself in his path. With uplifted hands and bowed head he stood, the representative of sympathy and regret.
There was silence among the watching group as their eyes followed him. This tribute soothed Govind’s wounded spirit as no words could have done, and he raised a hand in acknowledgment.
The little assembly watched till he disappeared. The same thought was in the mind of each. There went the luck of the camp; without their seer, who could say what misfortunes were in store for them, from the master and missie down to the kitchen boy? An unusual silence fell over servants and constables.
Nancy returned to Joan’s tent to make her preparations for dinner. Darkness had set in except for what little light was shed by the rising moon. As she approached the tent Rama rose out of its shadow and stood like a sentinel at the entrance, a ready messenger if hot water was needed and any message had to be sent to the kitchen.
“Where’s your mistress?” asked Nancy.
“The missie has not returned.”
Nancy was full of her own affairs. The glamour of the new world that had opened before her excluded all other thoughts. She hurried on with her toilet in order to clear out of the way when Joan came in. “She is sure to be late,” said Nancy to herself. “I know exactly how she feels.”
Dinner was at eight o’clock. At half-past seven Evan appeared and strolled towards the camp chairs that were set under the wide-open fly of the dinner tent. Rama approached and stood at attention before him.
“Well! What is it?” he asked.
“The missie. She has not come back to camp.”
Llewellyn had to collect his thoughts.
“Where is she?”
“In the jungle, sir,” was the simple reply.
“Nonsense! It’s pitch dark in the jungle by this time. Is Captain Denning in his tent?”
“No, sir, he too is in the jungle.”
“With missie?”
“I don’t know, sir. I followed according to master’s order always to look after missie. But I was told to come back to camp.”
“Did they carry lanterns?”
“No, sir. Sun shining when they started.”
“Good heavens!” cried Llewellyn, suddenly roused to a sense of the seriousness of the situation. “Some accident must have happened. Did they take their guns?”
“No, sir. Only going a little way. To-morrow, early, Captain Denning will go shooting, his servant says.”
Evan did not speak. He stood there in the dim light of hurricane lanterns and a silver half moon. At this moment Nancy joined him. As she came up she glanced from one to the other. She read consternation on the faces of both.
“What’s the matter? Soup upset?” she asked.
“Joan and Denning have not come back.”
“Late! shocking behaviour! They have been thinking of something else besides the beauties of the forest.”
“Joan never walks in the jungle at night unless she has lights and Rama with her. I am afraid she has met with some accident,” said Evan in a troubled voice.
Nancy recognised the fact that it was serious and no laughing matter. She turned to Rama.
“What do you think has happened?”
“Missie and that gentleman have lost their way. Too dark to see in the jungle. Too many game tracks.”
“Oh, but that’s nonsense!” cried Llewellyn impatiently. “Missie knows the paths all round the camp.”
“In the daytime——” began Rama, but his words died away as he gazed at his disturbed master.
“Evan, the man may be right,” remarked Nancy, keenly regarding the young constable.
The butler came up to hear what the confab was about.
“Will master wait for the missie?” he asked.
“Yes—no—is dinner ready?”
“In ten minutes, your honour.”
“Yes, we will wait. Do you mind, Nancy? We must give them a little grace.”
“Of course not! How can we sit down to dinner with Joan lost in the jungle?” She turned quickly to the camp servant. “Ganjee, do you think that they are lost?”
“Yes, missie. The darkness comes on quickly in the forest. The jungle is too thick to see the path without a light.”
“Is it likely that there has been an accident?”
“No, missie. It is only the night.”
“We must do something,” exclaimed Llewellyn.
He was thoroughly disturbed and was inclined to be annoyed with his sister for having done what he considered a foolish thing.
“You must send out some of your men with lanterns—all the hurricane lamps you can spare. How many peons and constables are here in camp? asked Nancy.
“Only those on night duty. The others have gone to the rest-house on the Ghaut road. They hate sleeping in the jungle.”
“Anyway, here’s Rama.” She turned to him. “Do you think you can find the missie?” she asked.
“I can try,” replied Joan’s faithful attendant.
“You don’t know the jungle paths, Rama, except those near the camp,” protested Llewellyn.
“No, sir,” he acquiesced resignedly. “But I can go and look.”
“You will only get lost, yourself, and that won’t help.”
There was silence. Llewellyn was tired. The thought of spending the night in the jungle, in a hopeless search for someone who had left no indication whatever of the way that had been chosen for a purposeless walk, was not pleasant. And just as he had promised himself a blissful evening with Nancy!
Suddenly Nancy had a brain wave.
“Evan, where’s that wonderful old man who haunted the camp when I was with you on my first visit?”
“Govind!” he cried.
“That’s the man. Send him. He knows the jungle inside and out.”
“I am afraid the old man is not here. He has gone back to his village in the depths of the forest.”
“Then someone else must go,” said Nancy.
She spoke with her usual impetuous decision.
“Yes, certainly, and at once,” responded Llewellyn, taking the lead. “Rama, you must have one of the constables with you. Carry lanterns and follow up all the paths leading from the camp. Keep together and listen for calls.”
“Yes, sir,” was the cheerful reply, although he, like his fellow-constables, hated spending a night in the open jungle.
“At the end of two hours,” continued Llewellyn, “if you have not found the missie and Captain Denning, come back to camp. I shall have dined by that time and changed into jungle kit. Then I will try my luck with the other constable and see what I can do. Ganjee,” he called, “let us have dinner at once.”
Rama and Ganjee retired to the kitchen. As they moved away, Evan said, speaking more to himself than his companion:
“What a fool I was to dismiss the old man!”
“Why, darling? What do you mean?”
“Govind annoyed me this morning, and I felt it my duty to send him away from the camp. I banished him till the next moon.”
“A fortnight or three weeks hence! Rather a long time to do without him. Evan, as Govind is not here, I shall come with you to look for Joan.”
“No, darling, you won’t do any such thing,” he replied firmly. “That is one thing my little wife will have to learn. She cannot do my police work for me.”
Rama summoned the constable who was to accompany him. Ganjee directed one of his assistants to look to the hurricane lamps that they were to carry. Uniforms were laid aside and loin-cloths assumed. In place of the regulation turbans with the polished brass badges, a cap or a red handkerchief covered their heads.
A short conference in subdued tones was held near the kitchen tent in which Ganjee joined. Rama and his companion, bearing three lanterns between them, started off into the jungle.
A little later three dark figures, each carrying a light, entered one of the innumerable ravines that cut deeply into the face of the cliffs. Led by the third they climbed to the open downs. Here they found a path that followed the edge of the ramparts that rose perpendicularly out of immense stretches of undulating forest.
Slowly their leader crept along the top of the precipices. The air was cold and a dew was falling, but there was no wind. It would not be till the small hours of the morning that the breeze would spring up.
The narrow path that ran parallel with the cliffs was just discernible in the moonlight to the practised eye. For miles it followed the edge of the downs, turning inland where a ravine or gorge broke the wall of rock.
Well, indeed, was it that the seer had refused to accept his dismissal. When sentence was pronounced by the big police master, the old man had vanished from sight with every appearance of submission, but he had only put the distance of a quarter of a mile between himself and his favourite haunts.
With the pitching of the tents Govind had arrived and had promptly pitched his own. It was a brushwood hut pushed into a recess in the cliff. Only an experienced eye could have detected its presence. It was snug and warm, a retreat to which the owner could retire to sleep or brood at leisure.
At Rama’s summons the Kuruva crept out of his lair. He listened to the constable’s story, wagged his head in consent to the request that was made, and expressed his readiness to take up the trail. The old instincts of primeval man were roused at the prospect of a hunt, a man-hunt. It would not involve a kill at the end of it but a reward.
Frequently, as they noiselessly pushed their way along the narrow track on the brow of the cliffs, Govind stopped to listen, to peer into the jungle lying below and to lift his wide nostrils in the manner of a wary old stag. The others imitated his example. Like wild animals they stood alert and watchful, ready to read every sign.
Now and again they dropped to the ground and crawled to the brink of the abyss, every sense alive, able to distinguish any foreign sound from those that belonged to the Ghauts.
The jungle spread over the foot-hills and round the spurs and shoulders of the great range. It reached to the very base of the cliffs. It lay in the moonlight, hiding its mysteries from all who were aliens and strangers.
Suddenly Govind spoke. The two men looked at him. He had been leaning perilously over the depths below. Rising to his feet he gave a call. It was the cry of the night-heron as she takes her long flight from her nest to the low-lying swamp where the frog and snake abound.
He moved on again and peered down into the forest. There was not sufficient light to distinguish bird or beast but the old man’s keen sight could detect various landmarks known to himself. He sniffed the air and sent forth the melancholy wail of the night bird. And once more he strained his ears to catch every sound that was in the air.
Far below a monkey growled as it tried to push its way closer into the circle of furry sleepers roosting in the trees. An owl screeched as it searched an open glade where jungle rats were busy over the fallen fruits on the ground.
Away in the south a leopard gave a disappointed snarl that ended in a roar. It had been stalking a herd of deer. The night air had betrayed it, and with the first whiff of the enemy the terrified animals had bounded away.
Steadily and of set purpose the old jungle-wallah paced, halting constantly to listen and sniff like the sentinel hinds that do the scouting for their antlered mates. And every few minutes the cry of the heron sounded over the forest.
He stopped before one of those rents in the cliffs that merge into water-worn ravines where a stream gathers force and leaps down towards the sea. He gave his companions a few directions enjoining on them that they were to follow closely and turned down into the gorge.
Denning glanced at the luminous face of his wrist watch. It was just eleven o’clock.
“What time is it?” whispered Joan.
He told her, adding, “I hope you’re not very hungry, dearest.”
“I feel too upset to want any food. A hot cup of tea would be refreshing, but that I must wait for. Have you missed your dinner very much?”
“Less than you would suppose. Fortunately I’ve had plenty of cigarettes. I’ve smoked a great many more than are good for me.”
“They won’t do you any harm.”
“Except that they make me very thirsty. I could do with a long drink. We shall have to wait for our drinks till the morning. Let me arrange your seat again. I can manage to gather a few more boughs.”
“It is not necessary. There are plenty here. We started with a good supply. You haven’t given a call lately. We mustn’t stop shouting. Evan is sure to be out looking for us.”
Denning raised his voice in a long yell which he repeated twice.
“My hat! that’s thirsty work if you like,” he exclaimed, as he coughed hoarsely.
Joan was listening intently.
“I don’t hear anything that sounds like a reply,” she observed.
“The jungle is full of queer noises which I can’t place. I suppose Llewellyn could tell us what they were. I remember the night Carter and I sat up for the tiger the various sounds I heard surprised me. Every now and then something—bird or beast—squawked or grunted or rustled or screamed, just like that creature that’s squawking overhead at this minute. It must be very high up for I can only just catch the sound.”
“It’s a night-heron,” said Joan. “I often hear a pair of them passing over the camp in the middle of the night. They call to each other to keep in touch.”
“Where do they go?”
“To the irrigated lands below the Ghauts at the foot of the hills.”
“There it is again,” remarked Denning.
“That’s probably the mate.”
They settled down once more with their backs against the rock.
“Would you like to lie down?” he asked. “I am sure that I could make you comfortable.”
“I would rather sit up for the present, if you don’t mind my leaning against you.”
“Darling! As if I should ‘mind,’ as you call it! I will light up yet another cigarette.”
They had arranged themselves for another spell of waiting, when Denning caught the sound of the passing heron.
“There it is again!” he said.
“What?” she asked drowsily.
“That bird!”
“Another pair going down to their feeding grounds.”
Suddenly she roused herself and sat forward.
“Jack! Jack!” she cried, her heart giving a throb that shook her. “Answer it!”
“But dearest I can’t make a ghastly noise like that,” he replied, inclined to think that she was dreaming.
“There it is again!” she said. “It isn’t a bird. It is someone calling, someone higher up the mountain than we are. Answer it, please!”
He did as she asked. In spite of an aching throat rendered doubly hoarse by a long chain of cigarettes, he did his best to carry out her request. The heron ceased its melancholy cry, and though Denning gave three or four more shouts they met with no answer.
“Now take a rest,” counselled Joan. “Save yourself for another spell later. I am sure those squawks were human, but they may not have been meant for us. These forest people have a wonderful way of communicating with each other by using the cry of a beast or a bird.”
“How can the man who is listening tell that it is not the creature itself?”
“They have a way of differencing the call slightly. It is not only a signal. It actually conveys some simple information. I can’t tell you what it is, whether it indicates direction or danger or a summons for help. Two calls in succession means something different from one or three. They don’t confine themselves to the cries of birds. During the day it may be the hoo-hoo bark of a monkey or the howling of a jackal. Can you manage another call? I might try a cooee but my voice won’t carry as far as yours.”
Silence fell on them again as the minutes slipped by and no response came. Hope had sprung up in Joan’s heart. Slowly it was fading away. As it left her she became conscious of fatigue. Presently she would ask Jack to arrange the litter so that she could lie at full length. Would it be possible to do without a pillow?
There was a slight rustling in the vegetation as if a bird was disturbed and was escaping from its roosting place. It attracted Joan’s attention and roused her again from her drowsiness.
She sat up, lifting her head from Denning’s shoulder where it had fallen. He too became abruptly alert and watchful. Could the stealthy movements be those of a tiger or a leopard drawn by a sense of smell?
A dim glimmer of light shone through the foliage. Only human beings carry lanterns.
Joan recognised the signs. She sprang to her feet and ran towards the spot. Through the thick tangle Govind pushed his way; behind him came Rama and the constable. Never in all her life had she beheld so welcome a sight as those three dark faces peering at her with their black eyes. Denning himself was conscious of an enormous relief.
“This is splendid,” he exclaimed, as they salaamed.
“We have come for missie by master’s order,” said Rama, reporting his errand officially.
“That’s right. Here she is,” replied Denning. He passed an arm round Joan to support her. The reaction had been almost too much for her. She was trembling from head to foot. “Can you lead us back to camp?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Rama.
“How far is it?”
“About half an hour for missie,” was the answer.
“Think you can manage it?” he asked, looking anxiously into her face.
“Try me!” was the quick reply.
Nancy and Evan were sitting in the dining-tent. They had dined and changed into warm suits, Nancy because the night air of the hills was cool, Llewellyn because he wanted to be ready to take up Rama’s job as soon as the man came back. Their ears were alert to catch the sound of returning voices.
In the face of real trouble Nancy had become serious. The light chaffing tone that she usually adopted had changed to a warm sympathy that Evan felt was extended to him in his trouble as well as to the lost wanderers.
As the hours passed he became yet more anxious. He was beginning to fear that the searchers themselves were lost. He was in ignorance that the astute Rama had found an efficient guide in the Kuruva, whom Evan believed was hiding in disgrace by this time, some five miles from the camp, among his own people.
Joan and Denning could not have wandered very far from the camp, Evan thought. The path, if they had kept to it, was well defined. If, on the other hand, they had left it and followed a game track, they might soon have lost themselves.
But would his sister, with all her experience of the forest, have done anything so foolish?
Llewellyn tried in vain to induce Nancy to go to bed. She refused firmly, pointing out that she would not be able to sleep, that she would be listening for Joan and quite as anxious about her as he was.
A distant cooee brought them both to their feet.
“There she is!” cried Nancy, as she rushed out into the moonlight and ran towards the swinging lanterns that appeared at the far end of the glade.
“Darling disturbers of our peace!” she exclaimed, as she came up with them and tried to clasp them both at once in a wide embrace. “Where have you been hiding all this time, leaving Evan and me to shed gallons of tears?”
The frivolous demoiselle had reappeared once more and was flitting about the wanderers.
“Come along, do! Ganjee has some dinner keeping hot for you.”
“It’s tea or hot coffee that I want,” said Joan.
“And a whiskey and soda for me!” added Denning.
She hurried them towards the tents. Llewellyn lingered behind to question Rama. His eyes passed beyond the constables and rested on a third figure who was also carrying a lantern.
“Govind! Old father of the forest!” he said, and there was a quality in his voice that reassured the seer. He would not have to wait till the new moon to be reinstated in the police master’s favour.
Rama regarded Llewellyn with an anxious eye.
“Master must please excuse,” he began, not quite certain of approval, even though he had brought his expedition to a successful end. He was conscious of having committed an unpardonable offence. He had acted without orders. “It was too hard, your honour, for me to find my way alone in the jungle. I called the Kuruva to help. Your honour must forgive. The old jungle man knows how to walk through the forest by night as well as by day.”
“How did he set about it?” asked Llewellyn, confident that he would once again have evidence of the occult powers of the seer. The finding of someone lost in the mazes of that dense jungle could only have been accomplished by the exercise of an instinct that even the constables themselves did not possess. As Scott would have said, the man had inherited a sense of direction from his primeval ancestors which the better educated had lost.
Rama described how Govind led them to the top of the cliffs. Some idea of the direction the lost couple had taken could be gathered from Rama himself who had seen them depart.
Govind had followed it high above the jungle. He had listened for calls and sent his own signals down to the forest below.
“Did you hear Captain Denning answering?”
“No, sir, not till we were down the ravine and near the place. It was a difficult path to follow in the dark. They were hidden in thick jungle, close to the rock that goes straight out of the forest. It is a wall.”
“I know; but it is some way from the path which missie took. What made Govind look there for them?”
“The Kuruva smelling and listening on the top of the cliffs.”
“He couldn’t smell an Englishman all that way off,” protested Llewellyn. “You were some hundred feet above the place where they were.”
“The Kuruva has a good smell, sir.”
Another inherited faculty shared with the deer and the wild beasts of the forest. He turned to Govind.
“Rama tells me that you smelt out the Englishman. Is that so?”
Govind wagged his head in assent.
“I can smell a long way, sir,” he replied confidently.
“Not an easy thing to do,” remarked Llewellyn with the shadow of a smile.
“It was not hard to do with Captain Denning, your honour,” explained Rama. “The Kuruva has a very good smell, and that gentleman, he plenty too much smoking.”
The solution of the mystery of the old man’s sense of direction took Llewellyn by surprise, and he laughed. So much for the occultism of the seer! A very simple matter in this case, where nothing more was needed than the exercise of a sense that was sharpened by a long residence in the jungle.
“To-morrow, old father of the forest, you may come to the office. Captain Denning and the missie will give you a present.”
The old man’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight.
“You can stay in the camp——”
There was a slight pause. Then Llewellyn added with a note of warning in his voice:
“As long as you play no tricks with my staff. We don’t want any spells and black magic in camp.”