The Malabar Magician

Chapter I

The Scene is laid on the West Coast of South India.

  • John Benacre — Assistant Superintendent of Police.
  • Lawrence Hillary — Inspector of Police.
  • The Kurumba — A Malabar Magician.
  • Lorenza de Souza — alias the Paddybird, Benacre’s Cook.
  • The Poochee — His Assistant.
  • Ramayan — Tracker in the Police Force.
  • Varadia — A Constable.
  • Raju — Hillary’s Servant.
  • Chellum — A Cultivator.
  • Narrain — A Landlord and Temple Trustee.
  • Captain Ormesby — An Officer in the Army.
  • Lieutenant Amersham — Ditto.
  • Phulmoni — Raju’s Daughter.

Chapter I

The Magician’s Curse

It was a still grey dawn. The sun below the horizon was piercing the vapour-laden sky with a few threads of gold. The western Ghats of Southern Indian stood up in blue and grey against the pale primrose of the East. The air, crisp and cool, had a feeling of the night in it. Nature on this side of the hills was slow in awakening. The birds, deceived by the deep shadows of the forest, were loath to leave their snug shelters under rock and branch; for the dripping foliage was heavy with the dew.

Inspector Hillary turned out of his bungalow, gun under his arm, and a bag slung across his shoulder. In addition to a little ammunition the bag contained enough food for the day. Varadia, the constable, joined him as he emerged from the verandah. The latter had brought a note the evening before from the Assistant Superintendent of Police. It contained a request that his subordinate would meet him at a certain spot on the other side of Doorga’s Peak.

“What is this that I hear about a tiger having been seen upon the Peak?” asked Hillary.

“It is true, sir. As I passed between the Peak and the river on my way here last night, the tiger crossed the path. It turned and looked at me and then went on down the side of the hill towards the river.”

“You were not frightened?” asked the Inspector, his eye resting on the man with some curiosity.

“No, sir,” replied the constable, who was country-born and jungle-reared.

The villagers were terrified at the larger beasts of prey. Above all things they dreaded a tiger, even if it had not the reputation of being a man-eater. The dogs and pigs, which satisfied the leopard, were not sufficient to appease its appetite. Nothing less than a cow or a buffalo would be the toll taken by the big beast. It was strange to the observant Inspector to find a man who did not share the fears of his neighbours.

“I suppose you understand their habits and know how to avoid danger?” he remarked.

Varadia blinked his eyes. He had his secret and he kept it.

“It is not good to meet a tiger at any time; and your honour is wise to carry a gun,” was the answer.

Hillary lighted his pipe and strode off towards the jungle. The heavy cloud cap that enshrouded the Peak lifted, and fragments of vapour with frayed edges floated away. Golden gleams shot upwards, and the cold tints of dawn mellowed as the sun mounted the chain of hills. The jungle remained in deep shadow unstirred by a breath of wind.

The Englishman from long practice covered the ground as easily and as quickly as a hill-man, now striding down into the mossy ravines where a silvery mountain stream rippled over its stony bed; now climbing knee-deep through beds of fern and terrestrial orchids.

The path skirted the foot of the magnificent crag known as Doorga’s Peak, a landmark visible from the West coast, as well as from the plateau in the East. Hillary had walked for more than an hour, keeping a wary eye for the chance sight of the striped beast, when he heard the sound of voices in the forest. Something in the tone struck him as unlike the usual nasal twang of the native tongue. He hurried forward. The path emerged suddenly from the dense jungle into an open space formed by a natural terrace on the hill-side. On one hand was the forest covering a sharp declivity that fell away from the edge of the terrace. On the other the wall of living rock rose towering above. It was not altogether bare. Where there was crevice or ledge, vegetation in some form sprang up luxuriantly.

Hillary followed the path along the terrace until he came to a cleft in the rock. It was about ten feet wide, and contained signs of being inhabited. A creeper had found foothold above the opening, and its wreaths and trails hung down like a curtain partially screening the entrance.

Not far from the cave was a large boulder half buried in the soil. It was shaded by a giant tree. The crown of thick foliage spread like an umbrella above the stone, and afforded shelter from sun and rain. At the side of the stone stood two Englishmen. A fire burned at their feet and upon the glowing embers they had warmed some coffee in a tin pot. The smoke from the sticks curled round the boulder and ascended into the tree, clinging about it in the heavy morning air and diffusing a pleasant smell of burning wood and steaming coffee.

At the entrance of the cave was the mysterious magician who claimed the cavern as his domicile. His spare figure was enveloped in a coarse yellow blanket, and his uncombed locks fell in a tangled white mass upon his shoulders. With fiery eyes he glared at the strangers, uttering vehement words in his uncouth language which the Englishmen did not understand.

Hillary noted their guns and guessed at once that they were two officers from the military station on the West coast, who had come into the hills intent on killing big game. As he drew near they turned to him with evident relief. The red puggaree on his helmet proclaimed his profession.

“Hallo! Inspector, you’re just the man we want,” cried Captain Ormesby, excitedly. “Here’s this old Johnnie making the devil of a row about something or other. We don’t know what it is; we’re not aware that we have given him offence.”

His companion, of a more phlegmatic nature, finished his coffee without showing any sign of disturbance, and began to put the few utensils they had brought with them into a satchel. The Kurumba magician was in a state of intense agitation bordering on frenzy. He poured out his tale in his own tongue.

“Sir! These men have taken possession of the ground set apart for my swami. They have slept under the devil-stone all night; and the smoke of their cooking has ascended into the tree. The smell of them is an abomination to the spirit of the tree; the sight of them is an offence to his eye. I have begged and prayed them to depart. I have told them that the wrath of the god will pursue them and bring big misfortunes; but they pay no attention”

“Enough, father of the jungle,” said Hillary, holding up his hand to stay the torrent of speech. “They do not know that the spot is sacred. I will explain; and as soon as they understand they will go.”

The agitation of the Kurumba abated although he was still greatly disturbed. He was well-known to the Inspector as a harmless old hermit, who was held in reverence throughout the district as a worker of magic, an astrologer, a prophet, a healer, and a medicine-man.

“What right have they here?” asked the Kurumba. “Is not the country large enough and the mountain wide enough for them to find shelter elsewhere without troubling the swami of the stone?”

“Oh! wise one of the cave! leave me to treat with them; and I will see that they give money to make a sacrifice to the devil, which will restore him to good-humour.”

Hillary spoke in the man’s language and his conciliatory tone had a soothing effect, for the reply came in a gentler tone.

“He who comes and goes like the rain is wise. I will leave it to your honour.”

“What is he talking about?” asked Captain Ormesby, with a note of contempt in his voice. It had the effect of rekindling the wrath of the outraged custodian of the devil-stone, who said nothing; but he expressed himself forcibly in another way; he spat upon the ground. The action did not escape the notice of the Englishman.

“Be off with you!” he cried, unable to hide his annoyance at the want of respect shown.

The magician understood the purport of the words, although he had no knowledge of English, and his anger blazed forth unchecked. He broke out into curses and maledictions. He cursed the sportsmen, their weapons, their bullets, and everything that belonged to them. Hillary comprehended all that was said. He was accustomed to plain speech in the vernacular; but this outburst made even his ears burn. He laid a hand upon the shoulder of the furious man, as he would have touched a fretful horse, and the Kurumba gradually relapsed into silence.

“Peace, father; the curses of a Hindu do not stay upon the white man. They are as drops of water upon the leaf of the wild ginger that are shaken off by the wind; they fall to the ground without leaving a trace. Go; have I not promised to make all right?”

“The swami cannot be appeased easily. If my curses fail, his will not. See how the tree trembles with his rage.”

Hillary glanced up at the glossy foliage ruffled with the first breath of the morning breeze.

“Go, teller of the stars; see, even now the Englishmen gather up their property and prepare to depart.”

The Kurumba looked and was satisfied that the Inspector spoke the truth. Without another protest he silently moved away and was lost in the deep shade of the forest. Ormesby saw him disappear with evident relief.

“Hullo! You have managed to make the old chap vanish. What was the matter with him?”

“The spot which you chose for your early breakfast is sacred to the spirit that he worships, sir,” replied Hillary.

“We selected the stone in preference to the cave because we thought that we might be trespassing. There was a charpoy inside the cave which showed that it was inhabited,” explained Amersham in his unhurried drawl.

“May I ask if you really spent the night here?”

“Certainly; we slept under the shelter of the stone just on the spot where we built the fire, that being the driest we could find.”

“It would have been better if you had gone into the village below. Ellapuram is not more than half an hour’s walk from here. There is a police station near the bridge where you could have rested.”

He spoke diffidently, not quite sure if his comments on their proceedings would be resented. Whilst he talked he busied himself with extinguishing the fire and kicking the ashes away, so that as little trace as possible might remain of the intrusion into the Kurumba’s holy ground. As the party withdrew from the haunted tree to the public path, Ormesby explained how it happened that they were there.

“We sent our shikari on ahead to the village to get some food ready for us, thinking that we could easily find our way there by ourselves; but a dense cloud came down upon us suddenly. The mist was like a wall; we couldn’t see the path at our feet. We actually discovered the boulder by walking up against it. The cloud lifted for a few minutes and showed us the cave, We decided, however, to remain under the shelter of the rock.”

“Was the old man in the cave?”

“No; he turned up this morning about ten minutes before you appeared. The moment he caught sight of us he began to protest. Not understanding a word of his language we had no notion what his grievance was. It was lucky that we had some cold coffee with us and some biscuits otherwise we should have had no chota hazri.”

“Are you after a tiger?” asked the Inspector.

“Yes; we found its tracks yesterday between the Peak and the river. There were trees that it had clawed quite recently. We hope to get on to its tracks again this morning. By the way, are you looking for the beast too?”

“No, sir; I have to meet my chief over on the other side of the mountain; hearing that there was a tiger about I thought it wise to carry a gun.”

“What was that old man saying when he burst out again at us?” asked Amersham.

Ormesby replied with a guess, the accuracy of which Hillary did not deny.

“He was cursing us by all the gods of his country; I am sure of it from his manner. If there were anything in his maledictions we should be wise to cancel our engagement with the tiger and get out of this neighbourhood. But I have no faith in these jungle people, although I have heard wonderful tales of their occult powers. I intend to put a bullet into the brute if it will only be so good as to show itself. The tiger, I mean, of course,” he concluded with a smile at Hillary.

They were following the path and had arrived at a spot where it was joined by a game track.

“This is your best way, sir,” said Hillary. “The tiger will be between the hill and the river. Keep round the base of the Peak, where the jungle is not as thick as it is lower down, and look out for the beast on any bare slab of rock that has the full sunlight. It will be lying half asleep just like a cat enjoying the warmth.”

“Pity you can’t come with us; you know the lie of the land probably.”

“I have an appointment with Mr. Benacre, the Assistant Superintendent of Police, and I must go on to the village by the river. I hope you’ll have luck, sir. These beasts do much harm to the villagers’ property, and the people can ill afford to lose anything. They will be glad enough to hear of the brute’s destruction.”

“Thanks, Inspector. By-the-bye, if you see our man, tell him where we have gone, and ask him to bring us up some food as quickly as possible. Bread and fruit will do. We have nothing left but biscuits and a little whisky, not much to work upon, but better than nothing.”

Hillary promised to enquire for the man, and to send a constable with the message if he did not see him himself.

“It would be just as well, sir, not to let your shikari know what has passed between you and the Kurumba. The natives are very superstitious; he might forsake you if he heard that the old man had been flinging his curses about.”

They parted, and the two officers followed the game track, whilst Hillary strode down the path that led to the village.

He transacted his business with Benacre and thought no more of the sportsmen, except to send Varadia to do their commission. The day passed quickly in the discussion of various matters connected with police affairs in the district.

Benacre and Hillary lunched together, and after a smoke the Inspector rose, saying that it was time for him to be making a move for Doorgapet, where he lived. It was situated higher up in the hills than Ellapuram, and it would take longer to get back than it had taken to come down. With a tiger prowling about in the neighbourhood he had no wish to be benighted in the jungle, even though the beast might not be a man-eater.

The last subject mentioned was a mysterious robbery that had recently occurred at Doorgapet. A valuable sapphire pendant belonging to the temple was missing. The loss had only just been made known, and up to the present no clue had been discovered that seemed likely to lead to its recovery.

As Benacre did not wish to delay his Inspector—and he still had more to say—he walked part of the way back. They passed down the hill on which the tents stood, and reached the road. A fine bridge spanned the river, and carried the road across the low-lying banks that in the rains were covered with water. Long-legged wading birds paddled in the shallows and filtered the wet sand through their pliant beaks. A speckled kingfisher perched upon one of the piers against which the stream curled back into a smooth piece of backwater. Its golden eye was upon the brown limpid depths. With swift unerring flight it dropped from its perch like a stone at the flash of the silver fish, and was back again with the dainty morsel in its beak. On the bank above the bridge, stretches of yellow sand lay between the massive boulders. Women from the village spread their day’s wash, and under the direction of the dhoby, folded the brilliant cloths and loaded up the diminutive donkeys. The river sparkled and rippled under the broad arches, its depths limpid and clear in the sunshine. The hills were massed together in an ethereal blue, and a soft breeze blew in from the distant sea. Benacre and Hillary passed the police station beyond the bridge, and turned off the road into a path that led up the steep hill-side.

“Hadn’t you better go back, sir?” said Hillary, who would have quickened his pace had he been alone.

“I’ll walk a little further into the jungle. I’ve been in the tent all day, and am glad of the exercise.”

At the end of a couple of miles Benacre stopped, saying that he had had enough climbing. They stood for a few minutes before separating. The sun was beginning to drop towards the West, although the afternoon was not very far advanced. Its tropical rays had pierced the shadows of the forest and licked up the moisture of the night. Blossoms that had been buds in the morning had opened their cups ready for the hour when hawk moths would be on the wing. Giant trees were ruffled by a moist breeze that came in from the distant sea; and blackbirds and thrushes were busy with their afternoon songs. They spoke a language that was foreign to English ears, but the meaning of it was plain. Above the song of bird and rustling of the foliage came a sound that caused Hillary to turn his head and listen.

“What is it?” asked Benacre.

“Voices high up in the mountain, sir. There it is again. Some one is shouting for help.”

“Probably villagers who have been cutting wood in the forest. They are calling to each other as they come back.”

Hillary waited till it was repeated. “It may be the English officers trying to find their way down to the river. I met two this morning on my way here. They had heard of a tiger having been seen on the mountain, and were on its tracks.”

“I hope they haven’t had an accident. There’s the call again.”

The Inspector raised his voice into a long, penetrating shout which was met with a prompt reply.

“I had better go up towards them,” remarked Hillary.

“I’ll come too,” said Benacre.

“It will be rough walking; but there is no doubt about the necessity of going. We must get up somehow and find out if help is needed.”

It was a long stiff climb by a steep and tangled game track down which the deer of the forest came to the river to drink. After much responsive shouting they accomplished the climb, and Benacres’ worst fears were fulfilled. There had been an accident, and Ormesby lay upon a slab of rock, his white face drawn with pain.

“Collar bone broken from a nasty fall; fortunate that it wasn’t his leg,” drawled Amersham in his even, unemotional tone. “We’ve had bad luck ever since we left you, Inspector. We came up with the tiger right enough about a couple of hours after we parted from you. It was sunning itself on a piece of bare rock just as you said, and was half asleep.”

“Did you get a shot?” asked Benacre, who had been pouring whisky from his own flask down the throat of the half fainting man.

“Wounded it rather badly, I should say. I can’t understand how it was that we didn’t kill the brute. We tracked it by the blood; but before we could come up with it Ormesby fell over a rock and damaged his shoulder. Our shikari never found us; so we have had nothing to eat and drink but the biscuits and whisky that we carried with us. I gave Ormesby the last drop half an hour ago, and got him along as far as this, when he felt too faint to hold up any longer. It was then that I began to shout; and very thankful I was to hear a reply, for I had lost my bearings. The compass that Ormesby carried must have dropped out of his pocket when he fell. The lower we got, the thicker the jungle became, till we couldn’t see the sun, and I feared that we were in for another night in the forest.”

“It’s lucky we heard you,” said Benacre. “You’re a long way off the village and heading in quite the wrong direction.” He turned to the other, “We will help you down to the path, Captain Ormesby, and my pony will carry you into camp, where the village apothecary must do his best to set matters right.”

Ormesby’s gratitude shone in his eyes. He felt too sick with the pain of broken bones for speech. Assisted by the three men he was supported to the point of the way where Hillary first heard the call.

“You must be going home, Hillary, or you will be benighted. Mr. Amersham and I can manage by ourselves from here. You have a long walk before you.”

The Inspector was anxious to be gone as soon as he could be spared. However good a pedestrian a man maybe, he cannot go beyond a certain pace in the forest, where the path is little more than a game track. He paused before setting out.

“Did you say, sir, that you wounded the tiger badly?” he asked of Amersham.

“We put three bullets into it, and from the amount of blood the beast lost I should say that it was very hard hit.”

“Is it likely to be anywhere near the path I have to travel?”

“By Jove, Hillary, you had better keep a sharp lookout,” cried Benacre. “It’s sure to make for the river to slake its thirst.” He turned to Amersham. “Did you find it high up?”

“It was lying close to the game track, about a mile from the place where we slept, but further up the mountain, The forest was thin and there were open spaces with long grass. After it was wounded it took a downward course; but it was so badly hurt that it must be dead by this time.”

This was a consoling thought, but did not set the mind of the Inspector at rest. He knew by experience the wonderful vitality of the feline race. A wounded tiger would lie under the shelter of a rock or a bush when it could crawl no further, and remain a hidden danger to an unwary traveller who might wander within reach of its claws. With a last dying effort it might even spring upon him and strike him down with the mere weight of its paw.

He did not linger, but took leave of his chief at once, quickening his pace and carrying his gun in readiness in case the beast should take him by surprise.

Benacre strode off towards the village, leaving Amersham to look after his friend. He returned with the pony, and, just as the twilight merged into darkness, the little party reached the camp, where they found the apothecary—who had been summoned to set the broken bone—already waiting to attend to the injured man.

Chapter II

The Magician’s Peril

After the Kurumba had delivered his shower of curses his anger subsided. In spite of the supernatural powers with which he was supposed to be endowed, he was but human. The ebullition relieved his outraged feelings, and he felt better. He had fulminated his choicest maledictions against the men who had desecrated the stone of his god. Whether they took effect or no he did not really care. He had no reputation to uphold with strange Englishmen, who only visited the jungle on rare occasions to shoot big game. Had they been natives and men belonging to the district, it would have been a different matter. Then he might have made it his business to see that some of his curses were fulfilled, and that misfortune in one form or another descended upon the head of the presumptuous wrong-doer.

His frame of mind regarding his own operations was curious. Whilst believing that in all probability his curses would eventually come to pass, he was not unprepared for their failure; in which case he was quite ready, as far as was in his power, to hustle his demons with a little practical assistance. When failure supervened and he was obliged to resort to his own ingenuity, he took refuge in the belief that, for some reason or other, the gods were against him. Several trifles might contribute to this end. It was always possible that there might be some adverse influence at work, deflecting or nullifying his own. Or there might be some slight failure in his ritual. Unless the muntrums were chanted on the right note, they could not reach the ears of the gods. The oriental magician is totally ignorant of the theory of vibrations, but he knows the value of tuning his voice to the tone that sounds like a string touched on the violin-cello, the tone that is said to penetrate to spiritual ears.

Then again, the gods, as of old, might be sleeping; the moment unpropitious; or their attention directed elsewhere. Whatever the reason for a want of response on their part, it was the duty of their servant, who had invoked their assistance, to save their names from disgrace, as well as his own reputation, by acting for them. There was never a man of magic throughout the East or the West who did not feel the temptation of helping the supernatural powers when they were lethargic and unresponsive. When the magician of the West has succumbed to the temptation, he has been accused of chicanery; and it is sometimes quoted against him in depreciation of his occultism. In India it is fully understood; and if the worker of wonders is caught at any tricks, it in no way detracts from his prestige.

The Kurumba proceeded on his way to the village without troubling his head further about the Englishmen. He purchased a small quantity of grain from the grain-merchant. It was of the very best quality, and served out with a liberal hand in an overflowing measure. He murmured blessings on the charitable shopkeeper as the grain was poured from the measure into the drab coloured cloth held out to receive it; and the small sum tendered in exchange was taken without demur or question as to its correctness. If it was less than the other customers paid, it carried with it a benediction that was priceless. He passed on to another stall, and asked for betel leaves and areca nut. The loiterers at the stall stood aside at the approach of the swami, as they termed him. Again there was an exchange for a nominal sum; and it was the vendor and not the purchaser who was profuse in his thanks for the honour done, and the benefits conferred.

A woman with a sick child, hearing that the hermit was in the village, hurried down to the little marketplace, fell at his feet, and prayed him to come and make magic over the patient. The Kurumba was ready to do a profitable bit of business whenever it offered. He accompanied her back to her house, and spent some hours in performing incantations and magical rites.

The sun was beginning to descend in the western sky when the old man, shouldering his bundle of grain, turned his face towards the jungle to seek his cave on Doorga’s side. The rock in which the cave was situated rose abruptly from the forest in a rugged uneven wall that extended with a break here and there for some miles. The path leading from the village zigzagged up till it reached the precipice, and then followed along the edge, rounding each jutting crag and crossing the recesses where moss and fern found a sheltered bed.

The Kurumba arrived at the wall of rock. His dwelling was but a short distance, and he walked towards it with leisurely steps. By this time the sun was not far from the glowing horizon where the Indian Ocean was hidden in a haze of heat. Slanting rays fell sideways upon the stems of the trees, and touched their tall, straight columns with gold. Speckled orchids gleamed like satin-winged butterflies, and the pink blossoms of the wild begonia shone like fine coral.

Suddenly his steps were arrested by a low growl, a harsh grating snarl that was full of hate and anger and pain. He was startled and stopped instantly, standing motionless with the instinct of self-preservation that is common to the wild animal. The rasping snarl was repeated, and there was a rustle in the jungle close to the path. He glided forward with a noiseless movement, leaving the path and hugging the wall of rock. Glancing towards the sunlit foliage, from behind which the sound came, he began to mutter muntrums. Before he had taken half a dozen steps the head of a huge tiger was pushed through the luxuriant wild ginger and ferns. Its white teeth glistened in the afternoon light. Its tawny orange-coloured skin barred with black resembled the brown stems of the undergrowth flecked with shadows.

At the appearance of the tiger the Kurumba stopped again and resumed his motionless attitude; not a limb stirred nor muscle quivered. He might have been a part of the brown-grey rock against which he leaned.

His device did not serve him, however. The yellow eyes, shining with the internal fires of wrath and pain, were fixed upon him with deadly intent. The rasping snarl came again and again as the tiger drew itself painfully out of the tangled vegetation.

It was badly wounded and weak with loss of blood—too weak to travel further. But exhausted as it was the Kurumba knew that in its death agony it might find strength for a final spring. The bundle slipped from his fingers, and his eyes rolled with a scarcely perceptible motion of the head from right to left. Was there escape in front or behind?

It so happened that just at the spot where he stood there was a recess in the wall of rock. The path took a straight line across the bay. In avoiding the tiger he had moved from the path and hugged the rock, and in so doing he was literally “cornered.” His retreat into the bay had saved him from immediate death; for the tiger was near enough to the path to have reached him there easily. But his salvation was only temporary, provided the beast had enough vitality left to drag itself over the short distance that intervened. The Kurumba’s glance had shown him that it would be impossible to dash out on either side. The action would bring him perceptibly nearer to the tiger, and cause the brute to make the spring which it was manifestly contemplating. Whether it had strength to fulfil its intentions or not the Kurumba had no means of knowing.

The lips of the magician moved as he muttered his spells and incantations. He was not without faith in the art he professed, and he believed that the power of his spells would hold the tiger quiescent. His faith was shaken a few minutes later when the animal raised itself to its feet, and seemed to gather its powers for a spring. It swayed a few moments and then lurched forward, falling heavily upon its stomach. The distance between them was lessened by a couple of feet. A shiver passed through the old man’s figure as the tiger extended a forepaw towards him, and raised the cruel claws out of the furry foot in an ineffectual effort to reach him. He knew that no additional strength would be needed beyond what was sufficient to lift the limb. The weight of it would be enough to strip the flesh from his bones if the claws touched him; and lay open his naked unprotected body.

The minutes passed like an eternity, the animal snarling and panting as the blood oozed afresh from its wounds with each movement. The Kurumba stood erect, his body pressed against the rock. The white hair of age frosted his breast. The thin legs, straight and strong in his old age, did not tremble; and the bony hands were held in readiness for the death grip that must come. His lips continued to move, but in the middle of the repetition a terrible thought flashed through his brain, which for the moment paralyzed his tongue.

The beast had been wounded by the Englishmen, and it carried in its body the bullets that bore his own curses.

He had prayed that the bullets might not prevail against the tiger, that they might not kill it, that it might have strength to turn and rend its assailants. Then he recalled the words of the Inspector, who had said that the curses of a Hindu could not harm a white man. They would fall from his head as drops of water fell from the green leaf of the wild ginger in the jungle.

His curses were coming back upon himself, and he knew no muntrums powerful enough to avert them.

Again the tiger raised itself. It tottered upon its trembling limbs and made a step forward, falling prone in its efforts. The long forearm was extended as before, and the claws dug viciously into the turf, tearing up the grass by its roots barely eighteen inches from the feet of the Kurumba. After one more such effort those claws would not be buried in senseless vegetation, but in his own quivering flesh.

With each movement the beast became weaker, and it took longer to recuperate its strength. Ten minutes passed and the shadows lengthened. The birds all unaware of the tragedy being enacted beneath the boughs where they sang, poured forth their evening hymns of praise to the setting sun. The breathing of the tiger became more laboured, and the magician could feel the hot breath upon his legs.

Now it was gathering itself together for a last effort. The extended paw was drawn back. It steadied itself and slowly raised its body, lashing the long barred tail to and fro in fury.

The Kurumba did not stir. His lips remained silent and he waited for death with the resignation of the fatalist.

Suddenly a shot rang out in the jungle. A bullet passed through the brain of the staggering beast. It rolled over on to its side, its limbs quivering in the death agony. The muscles relaxed, and the angry fire went out of its eyes.

The Kurumba sank to the ground with a low moaning sound. He had faced death with magnificent courage. The abrupt relaxation of the tension unnerved him.

Hillary waited until he was sure that his bullet had done its work. Then he stepped up to the old man and laid a reassuring hand upon his shoulder.

“You are safe, father of the forest. The tiger is dead; there is no longer anything to fear.”

The magician looked up scarcely daring to believe in his good fortune.

“Your honour has saved my life.”

“It was lucky that I chanced to come at that moment. This is the beast that the Englishmen shot at. It has three of their bullets in its body. You see that your curses were not of much avail.”

“Your honour was right. The gods of our country do not fight against the people who rule us. It was useless to curse the men who built their fire under the devil-stone.”

“The gods know the strength of the white people. If I throw a stone at that rock, does it fall? No; the rock stands and the stone comes back to strike me. The curses that you cast at the Englishmen this morning came back in the body of the tiger; and if it had not been for my gun they would have hurled you to the ground with a torn body under the claws of the tiger. The forest would have lost its father and the villagers their man of magic and medicine.”

Hillary helped the old man to his feet, and walked with him to his cave. As he went on his way the hermit stood at the entrance and blessed him.

“Oh! wise one, who comes and goes like the rain! may the gods look favourably upon you. Trouble lies over your heart now like the night clouds on Doorga’s head. One day it shall be dispersed and happiness shall come to you like the sun in the morning. I have said it, I who will be your friend for ever.”

Chapter III

The Sapphire Pendant

A few days later the Assistant Superintendent of Police was in camp at Doorgapet, a large straggling village, lying some hundreds of feet higher than Ellapuram, on the other side of Doorga’s Peak. The villagers cultivated areca nut, ginger, cardamoms, and other spices in the valley below. Their dwellings were built on the high slopes above fever range. Daily they went down into the warmer and more humid air to till the terraced fields and to garner the crops.

At the upper end of the village was the little bungalow occupied by Hillary, the Inspector of Police. He had thoroughly mastered the language of the West coast; and had studied the temperament of the people. It was possible that he could penetrate a little further into their subtle and complex minds than some of his fellow officials, for an intimate knowledge of a language is an aid to the student of character.

Benacre had pitched his camp in a tope of trees near the bungalow. Thick foliage screened the tents from the keen mountain air that blew across the downs, and sheltered man and beast.

In the centre of the village stood the temple, an unpretentious building dedicated to one of the incarnations of Vishnu. It not only served for the villagers, but also for the inhabitants of the hamlets around. They brought their offerings and attended the festivals held periodically within its walls. In addition to the offerings, it had a revenue derived from a rich tract of land lying round a small lake or tank. This tank was situated in a snug little valley not far from the village. The temple also possessed a few jewels, with which the idol was adorned when it was carried through the village in procession on feast days. The most valuable was a large sapphire. It was set as a pendant to a necklace of pearls. The gem was flawless—a rare virtue with sapphires—and of a deep, intense blue. The pearls, though real, were malformed and of a bad colour.

The box, in which the jewels were kept, had two locks of different make. They required separate keys to open them. These were in the keeping of two co-trustees, named Sujah and Narrain, men of some importance in the village, owning property on the lower slopes of the mountains. In addition to the guardianship of the jewels, they had joint charge of the landed estate of the temple, and administered the revenues.

An influential person attached to a large Vishnuvite temple at Beypore, paid an unexpected visit at this period to Doorgapet. He was travelling through the place on his way to a town on the plateau, and he spent a night at the temple. In the morning he expressed a wish to see the contents of the jewel-box. The custodians of the keys were summoned, and the box was opened. To the consternation of all present, the precious sapphire pendant was missing.

Enquiries were instituted immediately. The co-trustees consulted together; Sujah recalled to Narrain’s mind the fact that the jewels were replaced on the last occasion when they were used, which was during a severe thunderstorm. There had been a feast with a procession. It was interrupted by a heavy fall of rain. The idol was carried back to the temple and disrobed in semi-darkness. Its plated casings and embroidered draperies were shaken free of the raindrops, whilst the jewellery was hastily put back into the box. Neither of the trustees could say for certain that he had observed the pendant when the necklace was replaced.

The ornament was attached to the necklace by a gold wire hook that slipped into a small ring on the string of pearls. Sujah suggested that it might have been detached through the jolting of the bearers as they hurried back. Narrain agreed that this might have been so. He mentioned incidentally that one of his servants had run away, no one knew where, taking with him a few trifles that were not of much value. It was possible that he might have gained possession of the keys and have stolen the gem. Narrain admitted frankly that he kept his key in a box that had a common bazaar lock; and the key of this box hung up inside his own kitchen.

Sujah refused to believe that the keys had been tampered with. It might be easy for a member of Narrain’s household to obtain his key; but his own was better guarded. It was locked in a cashbox, the key of which was tied to his own silver girdle. He was of opinion that the jewel had been shaken off or dropped in the disrobing, and that it had been picked up and secreted by some dishonest person. The runaway might be the finder; but he could not believe that he had abstracted it from the box.

The case was placed in the hands of the police, and there was much gossip in the village. The trustees did all in their power to assist in solving the mystery. At their joint expense they summoned the magician from his cave under Doorga’s Peak, and he subjected every person belonging to the temple to a severe ordeal, conducted with fear-inspiring incantations. The various members of the co-trustees’ households were also put to the same test. At the end of the ceremonies, the magician declared that the thief was not among them. Sujah suggested that it might be satisfactory if he and his co-trustee also submitted to the ordeal, although there was not the slightest breath of suspicion against either of them. Narrain consented, but expressed an opinion that such a course was obviously unnecessary, since they were responsible for the jewel, and could by law be made to replace it. It might compromise their dignity in the eyes of the villagers if they submitted to the same tests as their household servants. No one suspected them; the suspicion of the villagers fastened itself upon the absent man.

Narrain showed greater concern than Sujah, who accepted the loss with the fatalism of the East. The former was keener in his investigations, and more active in assisting the police to follow any clue that offered. Although no shadow of blame was attached to either of the men, Narrain admitted to Inspector Hillary that he considered himself more culpable in the matter than his co-trustee.

“I was careless about the custody of my key, and take blame to myself for my carelessness.”

Hillary contemplated him in silence for a few moments, and then asked what he thought of the case. Narrain lowered his voice and spoke earnestly, as if from conviction.

“I believe, sir, that if the sapphire was not stolen, it must have been dropped in the road, and that it was picked up by the man who has run away. He stole a few trifles from me to give a reason for his flight; but the real object of his sudden departure was to get to Bombay or Colombo, where he could sell the stolen jewel.”

“He will find it difficult to dispose of the stone,” remarked Hillary.

“Not in one of the big towns, sir.”

“I have sent a description of it and of the man to the police of every big city.”

Narrain was silent. This course had not suggested itself to his mind. Living in the heart of the hills, he had only partially realized the far-reaching power of the telegraph wire.

“I wish he would present the stone for sale; we should catch him then, sure enough,” continued the Inspector.

“He won’t dare to offer it, and he will be too frightened to keep it on his person. I think that it is quite possible the stone may be returned safely by post; in which case my co-trustee and I will be satisfied. We shall not desire to pursue the man further. I believe he was severely beaten by one of the members of my family—a person of hasty temper. The beating will have been a sufficient punishment—no more is needed.”

Whilst Narrain talked, Hillary listened, expressing no opinion himself. After a slight pause, he said—

“I think it is unlikely that the man will return the jewel.”

“It would be the simplest and easiest way out of his difficulty,” replied the co-trustee.

Benacre was a bachelor. His household was governed by a long-legged Goanese servant, with a high-sounding Portuguese name; the latter was known as the Paddybird. He was an excellent cook, and an enthusiastic sportsman. A former employer, on his departure for England, had left him a legacy in the shape of a gun. With this weapon he managed to keep Benacre’s table supplied with game—a welcome change from the tough goat and leggy chicken that masqueraded as mutton and capon in the menu. In order that he might have more time to devote to the “shooting of master’s grub,” as he called it, he had introduced into the domestic circle a young relative of lanky build like himself, who had acquired the nickname of the Poochee.

The Paddybird sat just outside the kitchen tent. The kettle for Benacre’s afternoon tea was singing upon a fire fanned by the Poochee’s mother, a widow, who filled the post of water-woman. The Poochee handed a fire-stick to his chief to light his cigar, and then prepared to take his instructions for the preparation of dinner.

“The Inspector Dorai will dine with our master to-night,” said the cook, blowing the smoke from his lips in close imitation of Benacre.”You will ask his butler to lend the best table-cloth and lamp; also a flower vase. There are flowers in the garden.”

“It will be well to borrow glass and plates also,” put in the table-servant or matey.

Having discussed the dinner in all its details, the cook turned the conversation upon the village gossip. They were presently joined by the Inspector’s servant, Raju, a man who had been dignified by the title of butler, but who might with equal justice have been called cook or matey, since he combined all these offices in his person. He was married, and his wife and daughter rendered valuable assistance in the kitchen as water-woman and kitchen maid.

“You have news, brother,” said the Paddybird, making room for him by his side.

“It is difficult enough to gather news in my master’s house,” replied the man, with unconcealed disgust. “He never puts anything in writing on paper, he speaks but little, and he burns all his letters. The telegram is the only thing that cannot be hidden. The post-peon knows what is written there. He learns it from the clerks, and they hear it from the ticking devil that speaks by the wire.”

“Your master has had a telegram,” hazarded the Paddybird. “What did it say?”

“That the runaway has been found at Bombay.”

“Has the stone been found also?”

“No; there was nothing on him but a few annas and many marks of the stick.”

“It is said in the village that he was badly used by his own master, who had cast eyes on the man’s wife,” remarked the Paddybird.

“That was so,” rejoined the Inspector’s servant. “The woman came to my wife that very night, weeping and asking for shelter. She thought that she would be safer with us of the Inspector’s household than with any one else.”

“Why did she not run away with her husband?”

“She could not walk so far, nor hide in the jungle as he could. It was she herself who begged him to depart lest he should be killed. She prayed him to go in, to Bombay, where the wages are good. He will send money and she will join him.”

“How did he pay for his journey by the fire-carriage?” asked the cook.

“By selling the stone,” said the matey before the other could reply.

The Paddybird turned on him with crushing contempt.

“Shuh! that man had nothing to do with stealing the sapphire. The whole village knows that he is not the thief, though the police pretend to believe the tale. Has he not been caught and searched? And what have they found? Neither money nor the stone.”

“Then who stole it?” asked the matey with some asperity.

The Paddybird wagged his head wisely; he had no more knowledge of the solution of the mystery than the rest of the company, but it was his habit to look as if he knew more than he chose to tell, which, added to a discreet silence, impressed the little company, and gave him a reputation for acuteness almost as great as that of the Inspector himself.

“The thief is still in the village,” he ventured to say, forgetting that everybody in the village had submitted to the ordeal of the magician.

“The wise man of the cave declared that the thief was not among those who underwent the ordeal,” continued the matey, with a persistence that annoyed the cook, and he turned the conversation to other subjects.

“There is not much game up here,” he remarked to Raju. “I have to go down towards the river to get pigeon and jungle fowl. It is a long walk, and takes up much time.”

“Not far off lies a tank in a little valley where there is plenty of game; but it is difficult to get leave to shoot. It is reserved for the Assistant Collector when he comes.”

“Might I not be permitted to go if I explained that the game was for my master’s table?” asked the Paddybird, eagerly.

“It belongs to the temple. Narrain manages the lands. He can give leave; but he has been asked often, and he always refuses.”

“I will see him myself,” said the Paddybird with decision. “Where can I find him?”

“At his house behind the temple. If you go now he will be sitting in the verandah, smoking.”

The cook rose at once. “It will save me much walking when we are in camp here if I can get leave to shoot on the tank,” he remarked as he adjusted his dress.

He gathered some flowers from the Inspector’s garden, and provided himself with a gilded lime from the bazaar on his way.

Narrain was seated on a raised bench of masonry in the front verandah, a part of the dwelling known as the pial. The Paddybird salaamed low as he stopped in front of the master of the house.

“I am your honour’s most humble servant. I am but the dust under your feet. Have I permission to speak?”

“Who are you?” asked Narrain.

“I am the head servant of the Assistant Superintendent of Police, Mr. Benacre, Esquire,” replied the Paddybird, giving his master as many English titles as he could think of at the moment.

“Do you bring a message from him?”

“It is a request that I may shoot game for my master’s table on the tank that belongs to the temple.”

“Did he send you to ask for leave?” enquired Narrain, with a suddenly kindled hope that the police officer was seeking a favour at his hands.

“No, sir; it is all my own thought,” replied the Paddybird, betrayed into indiscretion by his pride. The moment the words were out of his mouth, he saw his mistake.

“Leave cannot be granted,” answered the trustee, curtly. “You can go.”

“If there is any way in which I can serve your honour,” said the disappointed cook, putting on his most insinuating smile, “I shall be glad to do it. I am sometimes at Beypore, often on the railway. Your excellency has only to command.” Here he salaamed low with elaborate etiquette. “I take my leave, sir, asking many pardons for disturbing your honour.”

The Paddybird made a second salaam, shuffled a few steps to the right; on second thoughts he changed his mind, as though he would go to the left. The movement brought him once more in front of the pial.

“The game would not be required often, as my master seldom comes to Doorgapet,” he said apologetically.

Narrain regarded him thoughtfully, and lifted his hand as a signal to him to stop. The cook drew near with hope once more aflame.

“How long does your master stay here?”

“Five days, and then we move down the valley towards the river.”

There was silence during which the trustee weighed certain matters in his mind.

“Perhaps I might give permission if I found that you were willing to do something.”

It was clear to the cook’s mind that permission to shoot would be hampered by some condition. He hastened to assure Narrain of his readiness to perform any task, no matter how difficult it might be, in exchange for the boon.

“This robbery of the temple jewel makes one careful. It is evident that we have a thief among us.”

“That is so, Excellency,” answered the Paddybird, promptly, but entirely in the dark as to its relativeness to the subject.

“I understand that the officials at the post offices are opening and examining all letters and parcels forwarded to the inhabitants of Doorgapet, in the hope of finding a clue to the thief. The only people exempted from this spying are those belonging to the establishments of the Assistant Superintendent and the Inspector. Those upstart clerks at the post office are full of curiosity, and will have their prying fingers into everything. Listen, servant of the Assistant Superintendent, I have ordered a gold ring set with a ruby for my wife. I have said nothing about it in my house. It is ready to be forwarded, awaiting my directions. I desire that it may come without being defiled by the touch of low-caste baboos. I will tell the jeweller to address the parcel to you of the household of the Assistant Superintendent, then it will not be opened, but will come up by your master’s peon. You will arrange to meet the peon and receive the parcel without letting it go into the office—it will thus save the trouble of replying to questions—and you will pass it on to me without delay.”

The Paddybird listened attentively, and assured him that his directions would be carried out scrupulously to the letter. Such a slight task would be easy of performance, and an honour.

“If you serve me thus, you may have leave to shoot over the tank and the adjoining land. There is a boat on the tank from which you may obtain plenty of wildfowl,” said Narrain with gratification. “There is but one condition. The matter is not to be mentioned to a soul. If there is any talk, it will come to my wife’s ears through the bazaar women.”

The Paddybird promised everything. He was overjoyed with his success. For a sportsman like himself whose time was limited by other duties, this little bit of shooting was a veritable Paradise. In a couple of hours he would be able to secure game for his master which now took half a day to kill.

He walked slowly back to camp, turning many things over in his mind. The request made by Narrain was natural. There was close supervision of all the letters and parcels that went in and out of Doorgapet, except those addressed to the Assistant Superintendent and the Inspector or their servants. The Paddybird thought of his position as a trusted, he might almost say confidential, servant of the police officer. He was proud of it, and prided himself on being worthy of the trust. It was true that he made his commission on the bazaar account and took his perquisites; but they were moderate, and not beyond his master’s means. He was no thief to squeeze his employer to the uttermost, and serve him badly withal. No, he was honest in all things. If he smoked a few of his master’s cigars he took good care that no one else touched them. If he charged more for the meat than he paid, it was more than covered by the flesh he provided free of all charge with his gun.

In business matters connected with his master’s profession, he was loyal to the backbone. There was no swerving to right nor to left; the man who came with a bribe in his hand took it back with him; and the purchaser of news from the office went away empty. The proposal made by Narrain had been acceded to with alacrity, and no sign had been evinced that the task set was not to the cook’s liking. He was determined to have the shooting—would it not add to his master’s comfort?—but he was equally determined not to be made an instrument for evading an important decree that had been issued from the office. Instead of returning to the camp, he strolled to the bungalow of the Inspector, and loitered near the gate. Hillary, coming out to pay a visit to his chief, found him in his path.

“Hallo, Paddybird! Not shooting this afternoon?” he said in a friendly tone.

“No, sir; no time to-day,” replied the cook in English. “Too much plenty business got. Yesterday I killed enough for breakfast and dinner. To-morrow I go pot-shooting. Does your honour like teal? Then I will send some. Plenty nice ways of cooking teal, but some cooks, even if they have the prescription in writing before their eyes, can’t make good salmi or roast, or devilled. Those men have got no sense. There are others who need no prescription. A bow is as good as a wink. They learn a little and know the rest by their sense. I think your honour would be a good cook.”

“Perhaps,” assented Hillary, wondering what information the Paddybird had to impart. It was not likely that the man had waylaid him merely to give him a dissertation on the culinary art.

“It is the same with shooting small games for the table; and the same with police work. Your honour wants no prescriptions in writing. Knowledge comes in at the eyes and nose and mouth and ears. Nothing is hidden from him who comes and goes like the rain.”

Hillary laughed at the compliment, remarking, however, that it was as well to be told of facts sometimes, especially if they were true.

“It is proper to be honest,” continued the Paddybird, still beating about the bush; “and to tell the indecent truth. I am an honest man and I always tell that which will be found out. To-night, on the dinner-table will be seen your honour’s own best lamp and glass and crockery. Our camp things are enamel, and plenty chipped. I always speak the truth. I have borrowed all the best things from the bungalow, which your honour must forgive.”

“Certainly,” replied Hillary with patience, feeling that he had not come to the bottom of what was in the Paddybird’s mind. “My boy made no difficulty, I hope?”

“None, your honour. He is too much engaged thinking of the village affairs. He troubles too much. I tell him what’s the good of bothering about the temple sapphire, and the meddling of the clerks and police with the post letters and parcels. By using sense there are ways of avoiding the clerks’ inquisition.”

“That is so,” said Hillary, quietly. “How can it best be done?”

“As Narrain the co-trustee is doing it. He is a very clever man, of high caste and proudful.”

The Paddybird thereupon unfolded the plan by which Narrain sought to evade the contaminating touch “of the low-caste understrappers,” who would defile the gift he intended for his wife. He did it with the simplicity of a child, and Hillary glanced at him, wondering if he had any conception of the importance of the statement he was making.

“Your honour will say nothing, since Narrain does not wish it to be spoken of, lest his wife should hear of the coming of the ring before the time. When there is news about, women are like frogs in the rain; they cannot hold their peace,” concluded the Paddybird.

“When is the parcel to arrive?”

“In four days’ time, sir. It will come from a native jeweller in Madras by registered post, addressed to me. I have promised to receive it from the hands of the peon and to carry it to his house as soon as it arrives. It gives me great glorification to have this business placed in my poor hands.”

“What is to be your reward?”

“Leave to trespass on the temple lands in search of grub for master’s table.”

“Then you must be sure to fulfil your part of the bargain,” said Hillary with a smile.

The Paddybird returned to the kitchen with a light heart. He had shifted all responsibility in the matter of evading the authorities on to the shoulders of the Inspector.

Three days later Benacre lent Hillary his pony, and sent him down the valley to the post office, distant some twenty miles. In the hearing of the constables he commissioned him to make inquiries as to whether any fresh clue had been found by the examination of the letters.

During his absence the Paddybird duly received the parcel intended for Narrain. True to his trust, he carried it at once to the house and delivered it into the hands of the trustee.

“Was it known to others that you received a parcel?” asked Narrain.

“Only to the peon who brought it, Varadia by name, a silent man with no talk in him. I met him on the road.”

“That is well,” said Narrain with gratification. “I have not forgotten your reward. Here is the permission in writing. It includes the use of the punt.”

The Paddybird hurried back to his culinary duties with joy in his heart and an easy conscience. “It is not my pudding, but the Inspector’s. Therefore I need not trouble myself about the boiling.”

The sun had set when Hillary rode up to the camp, having been absent one night. He gave the pony over to the syce, and entered the office tent. Benacre glanced up at him with enquiry. The reply was a nod of the head, with which the Assistant Superintendent was perfectly satisfied.

On the following morning Narrain came to the camp in a great state of excitement. Hillary happened to be with Benacre at the entrance of the tent.

“It is as I said, sir. The thief has found it impossible to dispose of the jewel, so he has returned it to me. It was sent by hand. A strange man gave the parcel to one of my women in the bazaar last night without a word, and then disappeared. She handed it to me this morning. I have sent for my co-trustee, that we may replace the pendant at once in the box. Perhaps your honour would like to see it.”

He handed the jewel to Benacre, who, after a glance at it passed it on to the Inspector. Hillary examined it carefully and returned it, saying—

“I am very glad to see it back again. You must be more careful over the key in future.”

“I have decided to give up my office of co-trustee, sir,” said Narrain, addressing Benacre. “This business has been too great an anxiety for me. Let some other man take it.”

A few weeks later Narrain left Doorgapet, ostensibly to collect some outstanding debts that were due to him on the coast. He took ship for Colombo. On landing, he went straight to a native dealer in precious stones, and asked for an interview. He was admitted to the private room of the gem-merchant, who anticipated nothing less than a big deal from the request. From an inner breast-pocket he produced a small parcel, which he opened. In it lay the sapphire pendant, or its double.

“I want twenty thousand rupees for it,” he said confidently. “It is worth double that sum.”

The jeweller retired to his desk, turned on the electric light, and tested the stone. He came back quickly, and threw the pendant on the office table with some show of indignation.

“Twenty thousand rupees, indeed! The thing is not worth ten rupees! No; nor even five! It is glass!” he said contemptuously.

“I bought it for a real sapphire, flawless, and of the best colour!” cried the late co-trustee of the temple, his eyes rolling in his excitement.

“Then you were cheated! Take it away! It will do as a plaything for your children!” Seeing the incredulous expression on the face of his visitor, he added, “Get twenty thousand rupees for it if you can; but you will not find them here.”

Narrain picked up the bauble and departed sadly.

“This is the work of him who comes and goes like the rain. Truly he must have the help of the gods! And when they give their assistance, who can prevail?”

He was correct in his surmise. Hillary opened the parcel consigned to the Paddybird, and changed the labels of the pendants, putting his own private mark on the real jewel.

The original was cleverly copied in all its details, even to the introduction of lead into the silver setting to make it of the same weight. No one but an expert could have told which was the duplicate.

As Hillary recounted what he had done, Benacre observed—

“It looks rather like compounding a felony, doesn’t it?”

“Call it the prevention of a felony, a felony that could never have been brought home to the culprit.”

“Narrain will have a bad half-hour with the gem-merchant when he tries to sell his loot.”

“Sorry I shan’t be there to see his face when he discovers how we have outwitted him,” rejoined the Inspector with one of his rare smiles.

Chapter IV

The Poochee’s Trouble

The Paddybird was ill. He had exposed himself for two whole nights in the jungle, lying up in a machan for a leopard. One of the villager’s cows had been killed, and it was too good an opportunity to be lost. Though devoted to his culinary art, the Paddybird was an ardent sportsman. Usually he confined his shooting to snipe, wild-fowl, pigeon and jungle-cock. The kill tempted him. He had been successful in securing “Master Spots,” as he familiarly called the beast when speaking to Benacre; but, at the same time, he had been attacked by a fever which laid him low.

Benacre was still in camp at Doorgapet. In consequence of his servant’s illness, he had been unwilling to move on, not liking to leave the Paddybird behind to the more than doubtful care of the village doctor. The knowledge that he was causing inconvenience to his master gave rise to anxiety, which only increased the fever.

The Paddybird’s understudy, known as the Poochee, on account of his long, grass-hopper legs, performed the duty of cook to the best of his ability. Thanks to the forethought of the Paddybird, he was not altogether ignorant of the art. As a lad, raw from the village school on the West coast, he had been taken into the Assistant Superintendent’s kitchen, and given food and clothing, besides instruction. To be sure, it was chiefly to serve his own ends that the cook had acted thus. With a clever understudy upon whom he could rely, he was able to get away for some hours at a time with his gun in pursuit of his favourite amusement.

In addition to the cooking and cleaning of the utensils, there were accounts to be kept; and in this matter the Poochee was not found wanting. He duly wrote down three eggs where he used two, and he raised goat’s flesh to the standard of mutton, and added a percentage on to the price he paid to the river fishermen for their catch. With the assistance of his mother, the kitchen woman, he sent up the meals punctually, and in such a manner that Benacre felt no inconvenience from the temporary absence of his chef. Between them the lad and his mother nursed the sick man to the best of their ability. For the past three days there had been no improvement in the invalid; and he, as well as his attendants, was losing heart.

When the Poochee was not employed in cooking or in washing the saucepans, or in waiting on his relative, or in writing up the bazaar account, he withdrew himself from the camp to a retired spot, This was inside the tope of trees that sheltered the tents from the cold north-east winds blowing across the plateau. Seating himself under the largest tree, he indulged in the luxury of a good cry. Tears are common in India with the male sex, and men as well as women find relief in them when they are overwhelmed with sorrow. The Paddybird had been as a father or an elder brother to the Poochee, and the youth was grateful for the benefits he had received. It grieved him from the bottom of his heart to see his benefactor suffering. Unrestrained by the call of any duty, he gave rein to his grief, mopping his tears with a dish-cloth.

Presently the acuteness of his fit of weeping wore off and he became more silent. It was then that a faint echo of his sobs caught his ear. Glancing round he saw Phulmoni, the little thirteen-year-old daughter of Inspector Hillary’s factotum. She had seated herself under the shelter of the same tree on the other side of the trunk, where she was partially hidden, and she was showing her sympathy for him by joining in his tears.

He felt flattered, and recommenced wailing, rocking himself to and fro in the abandonment of his misery, with head buried in the dish-cloth. It was not so completely enveloped but that he was able to observe his companion. She closely followed every motion, raising her voice in chorus with his, and swaying her slender, half-developed figure in rhythm with his movements.

“Aiyoh! It is my little father! He will die, I know he will die!” cried the Poochee.

“Aiyoh! the pity of it that he must die!” echoed Phulmoni.

“It is the cruel jungle fever that has seized him.”

Their sobs mingled again in one long, sympathetic wail that was mutually heartrending. When the paroxysm was over they dried their eyes and gazed at each other.

“Ah! bah! that evil fever! He must not be allowed to die of it,” cried Phulmoni, vehemently.

“Who can save him?” asked the Poochee, sharply. “We have had the village doctor. He has a good reputation; but he can do no more, and he has told us so.”

“He has many strong medicines,” said Phulmoni. “One of them is a wonderful pill. It was given to a woman with a cough, and it cured her in three days.”

“He has swallowed the pill, and it did him no good,” replied the Poochee, dispiritedly.

“Then there is a mixture brewed from herbs. A bottle of it took away dysentery of three months’ duration.”

“We have tried that.”

“He has also a paste that he spreads over the heart and the liver. In twenty-four hours it cured a woman who was dying after childbirth.”

The Poochee shook his head as he answered in deep dejection—

“We covered him with it two days ago, but it was of no good.”

“The powders also do wonders. A child in the village that was teething had convulsions. The powders cured it and brought the teeth up from the gums in two days’ time.”

“We have given him the powders, and he is no better.”

Despair again seized the Poochee, and he was shaken with sobs, whilst Phulmoni wept in concert.

“What does the physician say, since all his remedies fail?” she asked.

“That my little father is troubled by a devil that lives in the tree in which the machan was built,” said the Poochee in an awed voice.

His words startled his hearer. She clasped her hands together, and then cracked all her finger-joints over his head to preserve him from the power of the evil one. There was silence between them for a while. They gazed at each other in dismay, trembling under the weight of a terrible thought. Phulmoni was the one to plumb the depths of trouble, and dare to put into words what the boy would not venture to breathe.

“Aiyoh! What can we do, since we are but poor Christians? We have no priest near at hand to help us.”

If only they were at Goa, or even at the Assistant Superintendent’s head-quarters, something might be done! If only this had not happened when they were out in the district camping! Was a valuable life to be lost through the machinations of an evil spirit, merely because there was no priest of their Church within reach to exorcise it? These were the thoughts that flashed through the minds of the Poochee and his companion.

Presently Phulmoni drew a step or two nearer to her companion without rising from her squatting position. The silver bangles on her arms tinkled, and he could smell the marigolds that she had pushed inside the black strands of her knotted hair. She leaned towards his ear and whispered.

“There is the magician who lives in the cave under Doorga’s Peak. He has power to cast out devils.”

The Poochee, who had once more relapsed into tears, wiped his eyes with the dish-cloth, and stared hard at the little brown daughter of Eve. A bold suggestion lay hidden under the mention of the weaver of spells. The Poochee and the Paddybird were both Christians, members of the Portuguese Goanese Church. Phulmoni’s father and mother belonged to the same mission. They lived at Doorgapet, where there was no resident padre, so that they did not come under the immediate supervision of any agent of their religion as did the Paddybird and the Poochee. They were surrounded by heathen neighbours, who worshipped at the temple on certain feast-days, and made votive offerings to a devil that was supposed to live in the half-buried boulder in the jungle near the cave of the Kurumba.

Phulmoni as a small child had often followed a party of villagers to the stone, and she had been a spectator of the pujah unknown to her mother. Attendance at heathen ceremonies was strictly prohibited by the padres under pain of heavy penance, although their Christian followers might bring as many heathen relations as they pleased to the feasts of their own Church. In that remote spot a lapse now and then passed unnoticed, and consequently Phulmoni regarded the subject with more latitude than the Poochee.

“We are forbidden to have anything to do with heathen swamis,” he said severely, adding presently in a self-commiserating tone, “and we have no heathen relations to help us.”

Phulmoni pursed up her lips, as though to imply that there might be a way out of the difficulty, even if he had no convenient relation; but, before speaking of ways and means, she launched out into a voluble description of the efficacy of the swami’s treatment.

“My father took the fever,” she said, “and we thought that he would have died. The village doctor tried everything, just as he has done with your little father. It was of no good. My poor father grew thinner and weaker every day. My mother has an aunt who is a heathen. Seeing what a bad case it was, she sent for her. She came, and said at once that his sickness was caused by a devil. She went to the Kurumba, who told her that she had but spoken the truth. At night, when my father slept, the swami came and looked at him. He stood by his side and said many muntrums, for which we paid in silver. He cast powder upon a chatty of charcoal; and a blue smoke went up, curling round my father, who was shaken like a pepul tree in the wind. It was the trembling of the devil inside him. The man of magic repeated more muntrums, and blew the smoke over my father’s face. Then my father groaned and tossed upon his mat and the devil came out of him. The magician gave my mother some powder to mix with my father’s coffee, and told her that with the uprising of the sun he would be better. He drank it, and when he awoke the next morning the fever was gone.”

“The man of magic made the devil fly away?” asked the Poochee in an awed voice.

“My aunt told us that the powder cast upon the burning charcoal scorched the evil one, and the muntrums terrified him. He fled shrieking into the jungle, fearing lest the magician should do something that was still worse. She herself heard his voice lamenting in the night.”

There was silence for some minutes, except for an occasional sob. The Poochee was not going to be defrauded of the luxury of grief. The sob was invariably echoed by the sympathetic Phulmoni.

“To-morrow, after the midday meal, and when the pots have been washed, my mother will send me into the jungle to cut wood,” remarked Raju’s daughter.

Again there was a pause, during which the Poochee wagged his head with that motion of assent peculiar to the native of India.

“Come with me, little brother, and bring your knife. We will cut wood together,” said Phulmoni, boldly.

“Perhaps we shall see the man who lives in the cave under Doorga’s Peak; and we can ask his advice.”

The Poochee did not reply to this proposition. He dared not commit himself to any definite line of conduct. The mere thought of the mysterious dweller of the cave made him tremble.

They rose from their squatting position, Phulmoni smoothing the folds of her orange cloth and rearranging the ball of blossom in her hair; whilst the Poochee adjusted the cloth cap that he wore. He had thoroughly enjoyed his half-hour of grief. The sympathy of the girl had touched him deeply and consoled him more than a little. With the characteristic buoyancy of the East, he was prepared to return to his duties in the kitchen tent refreshed and in a cheerful frame of mind. He looked for a reflection of that cheerfulness in the face of his companion. To his surprise it was not there. Phulmoni drew a deep sigh now and then, and there were tears in the dark eyes that were lifted to his. Could her mother be ill? or had they received bad news about absent relatives? It was not the correct thing for him to enquire after any individual member of the family. He could only express a hope that all was well in her home.

All was well. Her father was busy over his many duties of head-boy, cook and matey. Her mother was well and full of work helping in the kitchen and preparing the food for her own family, she informed him. The Poochee was puzzled.

“Little sister, I must go back to camp and begin to boil the soup for my master’s dinner,” he said.

“Little brother, I too must go back to help my mother.”

The tears overflowed and fell down the smooth, round cheeks, this time manifestly on her own account, and not because she sympathized with another.

“To-morrow I will come with you to cut wood.”

“We will cut it near the Kurumba’s cave, though it is a long way to go. The wood is driest there,” she said, with the feminine instinct of finding a specious reason for an action that might be called in question.

The Poochee began to move towards the camp. Phulmoni followed at a distance of five paces as a modest, well-behaved little Hindu woman should. They arrived at the path that led to the kitchen tent. The girl had to walk twenty yards further on to reach the Inspector’s bungalow. She stood for a few seconds as the Poochee turned off.

“I hate the matey who serves your master!” she cried passionately.

“He is a quiet man, and gives no trouble,” said the Poochee, astonished at the sudden and vehement expression of feeling.

“He is old”—a pause—“and ugly”—another pause—“and short”—the Poochee was tall—“and very black!”

“Possibly; but for all that he is a quiet man,” he repeated, wondering what all this abuse of his fellow-servant meant.

“What does he want with a wife, an old man like him?” (he was between forty and fifty) she cried, as she passed on, the corner of her cloth held to her swimming eyes, and her shoulders shaking with sobs.

The Poochee comprehended the trouble. He was aware that the matey was contemplating marriage, but he did not know that he was in treaty for Phulmoni. The information gave him a slight shock. The girl was such a child, too young to be handed over to a husband for at least a couple of years. It was not the custom among the servant class to marry their daughters before they were fifteen or sixteen, though the promise of a bride might be made at any time in the child’s life. If his little father should recover he would speak to him about his own marriage. There was no hurry; he was unable to support a wife as kitchen matey; but when the time came for marriage, Raju’s little daughter was the kind of woman who would suit him—if, of course, the Paddybird approved. Money would have to be put down, and that he had not got himself. If the cook provided the money he would have a voice in choosing the girl. His thoughts were so full of Phulmoni and her troubles that he almost forgot his anxieties on his relative’s account, and he set to work at the preparation of his master’s dinner with something like a light heart.

Chapter V

The Casting Out of a Devil

The next morning found the Paddybird no better. Benacre was concerned for his faithful servant to whom he was attached. He determined to have further advice. There was a Eurasian apothecary living some miles away not far from the place he intended to visit officially. By making a little detour he could manage to call at his house and at least bring back a bottle of medicine, if he could not persuade the man to come himself. It would make him late in returning; but as there was a full moon and the road was a well-beaten track, that would not matter. He breakfasted early, and telling the Poochee to have some supper ready by nine o’clock he rode down the hill towards warmer climes and civilization.

After his departure the Poochee and his mother returned to the tent where the Paddybird lay. He was wrapped in a blanket apparently asleep, for he took no notice of either of them as they seated themselves one on each side of his mat. They spoke in low tones across his prostrate body.

“He is no better, sonnie. Last night I wrapped my prayer-beads in a leaf gathered from the tree that grows over the devil-stone in the jungle, and placed them under his pillow; but they have done no good. The fever burns just the same.”

The Poochee assumed the look of conscious wisdom that he often noted upon the face of his superior.

“Shuh! the beads would not be of any use in this case,” he said contemptuously. “This is a very bad devil. It is of no use to take a dinner knife to fell a forest tree. There is only one person who is likely to have any power.”

The woman wagged her head in assent. She understood the allusion without the naming of any names.

“But we are Christians,” he added with a sigh.

There was a long pause, and presently the Poochee rose to his feet.

“The master will be away all day; he does not return till nine o’clock. I am going to cut wood for the kitchen. The little daughter of the Inspector’s butler comes with me. I shall start as soon as you have served our rice. Whilst I am away, clean the vegetables for the master’s supper. Have we any fowls left?” he asked, looking at her with keen enquiry in his eye.

“There are three; one cock and two young hens.”

“Is there sugar and ghee?” He lowered his voice as he added, “and camphor.”

She answered that there was plenty of sugar and ghee but no camphor.

“It is to be bought in the bazaar,” suggested the kitchen woman, “You must also go to the village and buy some fresh eggs for the master’s breakfast.” He put his hand beneath the Paddybird’s pillow and drew out a little bag from which he took half a rupee. “Keep proper count, as I have to enter everything in the book. Perhaps it will be as well also to buy a little camphor. The master likes to have it put in his clothes box.” She nodded her head and he continued, “Make some chicken broth, and have it ready by the time I return. I will give it to the little father and he will sleep. If he can sleep at sunset and continue asleep till it is quite dark, it is possible that he may get well. Aiyoh! mother, what shall we do if he dies? There are still many prescriptions for puddings and savouries that I have not yet learned.”

“It is a bad business when the laying hen dies,” was her reply.

“He must not die! he must not die!” said the Poochee earnestly, whilst his mother wiped her eyes, and asked in a querulous tone—

“But who can save him?”

Her son in close imitation of the Paddybird replied darkly—

“If one cannot get ghee to fry the onion one must use gingelly oil.”

Providing himself with a bill-hook and a piece of rope, he started a little later for the jungle. Phulmoni similarly provided was waiting outside the camp. The Poochee after the custom of his forefathers led the way, and the girl followed a few paces behind. Their young legs covered the ground quickly, and they did not linger. Once the boy stopped as if assailed by a sudden qualm of fear; but Phulmoni urged him on, nor would she allow him to lag until they reached the Kurumba’s cave.

The magician was seated in his favourite spot where the sun fell upon him. He sat so still that he might have been carved out of the brown-grey rock itself. His vitality seemed centred in his eyes which shone in the sunlight like the eyes of a rat. The Poochee salaamed, hesitated, gazed a few moments at the weird figure and then slunk away. His courage failed him, and he could not face the weaver of spells. Phulmoni also hesitated; but gathering her courage she approached and repeated the genuflexion, going on her knees and laying her small brown hands upon the feet of the Kurumba. He acknowledged her salutation by extending his hand and allowing his fingers to rest upon her smooth black hair. Then he took her hands in his and pressed them against his forehead.

“Go and collect the wood, daughter; that is your work. Let the adopted son of the sick man also collect wood, for that is his work. When the time comes I will do my work and fulfil the desire of your hearts. Go.”

She rose without a word and fled. The Poochee joined her. He looked troubled and somewhat ashamed of himself.

“I could not ask the boon, little sister. I seemed to hear the voice of the priest pronouncing penance,” he said, as if in justification of his cowardice.

“Neither could I, brother. My tongue refused to speak. He told me to go and gather wood. You too are to cut wood. As he ended speaking there was a rustle in the leaves of the creeper that hangs at the entrance of the cave, as though a listening spirit trembled. Oh! but he is strong, that man! He has the rakshas under his hand. He closes his fingers so, and they are crushed and broken like beetles. Let us try once more so that he may know what we want. You must speak the word and say that your little father is nearly dead from the fever brought on by the devil that lives in the tree where he sat up for the cheetah. Come.”

She took his hand and led him back towards the cave. They were within twenty paces of it when an eagle screamed loudly just above them. At the sound of the scream the Poochee lost control of himself. He snatched his hand away and ran for dear life along the path that led to Doorgapet. Phulmoni’s courage also vanished, and she followed close at his heels.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon when they returned, each staggering under a heavy load of firewood.

“The broth is ready, my son,” said the kitchen woman.

She placed the bowl in his hands, and he bent over the sick man.

“I think I shall sleep at sunset after this,” said the Paddybird in a weak voice.

His eyes sought those of the Poochee with enquiry. The response was not there; and the cook turned his head on his pillow, whilst shame at his own cowardice held the boy silent.

“Perhaps I may sleep; perhaps I may not,” said the invalid wearily. “I am troubled with strange thoughts, and am often carried in my dreams through the jungle where I see things my eyes never saw before; and all the time I burn like a mutton chop upon the gridiron when there is no one to turn it.”

“It is the devil, little father. Oh! if we had but the priest to help us!”

The Paddybird groaned. Far from sleeping, his feverish unquiet seemed increased. He tossed from side to side and threw off the blanket as often as the kitchen woman wrapped it round him and tucked him up. She whispered to her son that she could hear him talking with the devil.

The sun was sinking over the low hills in the West behind which lay the Indian Ocean. Brilliant yellow rays gilded the Peak; the valleys were thrown into cool shadows, and mists gathered in snowy whiteness on the eastern side of the mountains. The song of the thrush was coming to an end and the barbets dropped into silence.

The Poochee, having no cooking to do at present, had seated himself by the side of the sick man and was watching the tossing figure. Each restless movement bespoke to the boy the presence of the evil spirit in the man. The light in the tent was dim. It was suddenly darkened by a figure that stood in the entrance. The Poochee looked up with a startled exclamation and recognized the Kurumba. By what wonderful means did he divine that his presence was so ardently desired at that special moment when the master was away? The Poochee rose and salaamed, retiring as the magician advanced and took the vacated place.

The news of the arrival of the Kurumba spread rapidly through the village, and no man was so busy that he could not leave the work that he was doing and run to the camp. Phulmoni and her parents were the first to arrive and to them was addressed the question by all comers.

“Who has called the Kurumba?”

The answer was that no one had summoned him; he had come unsought. By his marvellous power of divination he knew that his presence was needed, there could only be one object that he had in view, that of casting out the devil which was troubling the head servant of the Assistant Superintendent. A thrill ran through the assembly that had already gathered round the tent as the magician appeared, and asked for the adopted son of the sick man. The Poochee had taken refuge in a knot of camp servants; they pushed him forward that he might receive the directions of the swami. Assisted by his mother he brought a large empty earthenware pot to the tent, the cock, and various packages containing certain substances known to be necessary for the propitiation of a devil. The kitchen woman, seeing Phulmoni and her mother among the spectators, invited them to assist in the blowing up of the fire and the warming of the butter.

Two or three of the more pushing villagers, carried away by their overweening curiosity, attempted to enter the tent; but they were promptly ordered out by the Kurumba. The fierce unfriendly glance cast upon them by the magician set them trembling with fear lest the devil should be let loose upon them after he had been driven out of the Paddybird. They were questioned closely as to what they had seen inside the tent; and they had a blood-curdling tale to tell of smoke issuing from the empty pot where there was no fire, and of a magic circle drawn in white round the patient.

From the moment of the Kurumba’s entrance the Paddybird lay motionless, a sure sign to those around him that fear at the presence of the exorcist had struck terror into the heart of the devil. The sleep that had been wooed in vain suddenly overtook the afflicted man. In spite of the noise of many voices outside and the movements within the tent, he remained apparently unconscious. Had he been awake he must, as a good Christian, have declined the offices of the heathen Kurumba, and have prayed him to depart; but being wrapped in deep slumber he could know nothing of what was taking place.

The Kurumba, having killed the fowl and sprinkled its blood in propitiation, began to weave a charm. He wrote it in the blood of the cock upon a piece of dried palm leaf. The script was waved over the Paddybird, lighted and burned under his nostrils. In the performance of these ceremonies the magician chanted muntrums, concluding with the cabalistic utterance of “Yemmah! yemmah! yemmah!” as the palm leaf was reduced to ashes. The crowd outside heard it and shuddered; they knew that he spoke directly to the evil one himself.

The ceremony was nearly at an end. There remained only one thing more to be done. The magician beckoned to the Poochee to approach. He was standing among the servants whose presence was tolerated by the Kurumba on account of their association with the patient. At the call the boy shrank back; but Phulmoni, who had entered the tent and placed herself close to him, whispered in his ear—

“Do as he tells you, little brother.”

“I cannot, I am a Christian; it is forbidden,” replied the Poochee, a great fear making his legs tremble until he could scarcely stand.

“There are no priests here to see. The master of the kitchen lies sick. The evil one will kill him if all is not performed. Go, little brother.”

“Go! go! or the swami himself will be angry,” chorused the rest, fixing anxious eyes upon the reluctant boy.

“I dare not,” he panted in an agony of terror.

“It is for his sake—to save his life,” pleaded Phulmoni.

The patient with eyes tightly closed began to toss as though troubled by the malevolent spirit. The Kurumba raised his voice again in the cry of “Yemmah! yemmah! yemmah!” as though he would pacify its turbulent impatience. Again the crowd outside down to the smallest child present shuddered.

“See! the devil is upon him; go! go!” cried Phulmoni in his ear, terrified for the consequences of his disobedience.

A horrible groan rent the air. It seemed to come from the canvas roof of the tent. In a spasm of terror Phulmoni took hold of the Poochee unawares and sent him forward with a strong vigorous push. Before he knew where he was, he had entered the magic circle. The Kurumba on the other side of the patient seized his hands; and standing thus over the Paddybird the caster out of devils pronounced a curse upon the evil spirit. There was a scream like the scream of the night owl. Whence it came none could say. The Poochee, still held fast in the grip of those bony fingers, followed the glance of the magician. Through the smoky atmosphere lighted only by a flickering lamp, he had a vision for one moment of a terrible face with gleaming teeth and fiery eyes full of malignity.

The Kurumba released his hold, and the Poochee fell back faint with terror into his mother’s arms.

Half an hour later the camp was restored to its usual quietude. The Kurumba departed, assuring the Poochee that the devil was cast out and that the patient would awake the next morning feeling better. The villagers followed the magician in a body. Their interest was centred in the worker of spells and not in his subject. One of them was honoured by being singled out to carry the pot that had been used. In it was placed the fowl and the rest of the offerings which were now the property of the Kurumba.

The Paddybird opened his eyes when all the visitors were gone, and enquired feebly for the Poochee. The boy left the saucepan he was tending on the camp fire outside, and came at the call.

“Are you better, little father?” he asked.

“The fever still burns, but I am better. I have slept long,—ever since you gave me the chicken broth.” Their eyes met in a look that was eloquent of things which might not be uttered, and the Paddybird added, “I dreamed strange dreams while I slept.”

“What were they?”

“That the Kurumba from the cave came and made magic over me; but they were only dreams. We are Christians and can have nothing to do with heathen workers of spells.”

That is so, little father. They were but dreams. Rest, and to-morrow you will be better.”

If the man of magic should chance to come and offer to weave spells he must not be admitted,” commanded the Paddybird in a virtuous voice.

“Trust me, my father; he shall be sent away,” said the Poochee, as he returned to his saucepans outside, and gave the whole of his attention to the preparation of a supper fit for a tired and hungry master.

At nine o’clock Benacre rode into the camp. He brought with him a bottle of medicine made up by the apothecary. A dose was to be administered every three hours during the night, and the kitchen woman promised to see the directions faithfully carried out. The effect was miraculous. By six o’clock the next morning the fever was gone. The Paddybird slept with a cool, moist skin, and all he needed was food and change of air to restore him to health. The Assistant Superintendent attributed the cure to the medicine he had brought back with him. It was no one’s business to contradict him; but the Poochee and the rest of the camp followers, as well as Phulmoni and her parents, thought otherwise.

Two days later the master gave the order for the camp to be struck. The Paddybird though convalescent could do little except use his eyes and give orders. He was satisfied to leave the rest of the active work in the hands of his understudy; and whilst the Poochee and the matey were busy with the packing cases, he sat with Raju, the Inspector’s servant.

“The matey has asked for her, and I have promised to think over his offer,” Raju said.

“How much is he able to pay towards the wedding expenses?” asked the Paddybird.

“He has but fifty rupees.”

“The girl is young and he is old.”

“There is little choice of husbands in a place like this,” was the reply.

“My nephew is as a son to me, and I would see him married by-and-bye. The girl is strong and of our faith.”

At the end of a couple of hours, during which the subject was thoroughly thrashed out, and the sums to be put down by the contracting parties bargained for rupee by rupee, the hopes of the matey, unknown to himself, were blighted. He had been outbidden by the more prosperous cook.

“There can be no wedding at present. The girl is too young,” said her father.

“And the boy is not ready; but he shall be told. He is a good boy, and as devoted to me as a son,” remarked the Paddybird, his thoughts going back to his strange dreams.

Phulmoni and her mother watched the departure of the carts in the early dawn. The girl’s eyes went from the squat figure of the matey to the tall, lithe, if rather spare, form of the Poochee, as they started on their way down the road behind the last cart in which a seat had been found for the Paddybird.

“Pah! that matey!” she said. “He is old and ugly and stupid! What does he want with a wife, a black man like him!”

Benacre moved southwards from Doorgapet to a spot at the furthest extremity of his district. He intended to stay only three days and then to retrace his steps, stop a night at Doorgapet and give a week to Ellapuram, the village by the bridge. From there he meant to make day-journeys to the different points that required his presence and supervision. In this manner he hoped to get his camping tour finished in good time before the breaking of the monsoon. But his hopes were not destined to be fulfilled.

One morning he awoke to find the rain pouring down in torrents. For the space of three days it continued without intermission. The clouds hung about the Western Ghats in rolling masses, curling, twisting and mingling their vapours as they held their revels on the mountain tops. The superstitious hillmen looked upwards and heard in the echoing thunder the beat of marriage drums at the wedding of the clouds.

The coming of the moist south-west wind from over the Indian Ocean—calling the clouds into being and giving them licence—was premature. It was not the real monsoon and could not last. Presently the sun would re-appear; the wind swing back to its old quarter, and the roistering clouds would melt into ethereal blue as if by magic.

Benacre was careful to arrange his camping expeditions so as to avoid being caught by a burst of the monsoon. It not only caused discomfort to himself, but entailed still more discomfort on his camp followers. He had been delayed in his march by the illness of the Paddybird, but even with this hindrance he had not anticipated being held up by floods. It was too early by all precedent for the regular rains. They were not due until three weeks later.

Whatever promise the future may hold, it is with the immediate needs of the present that the mind of the native of India is concerned. The Paddybird recovered from his illness sufficiently to resume his duties in the kitchen tent. A serious dilemma had arisen that no promise of fine weather and sunshine in the future could mitigate; this was nothing more nor less than an empty larder.

The spot on which the camp had been pitched was a promontory jutting out into a fertile valley. On one side flowed a small river whose waters went to swell the flood of a larger stream lower down. On the other side there was a broad stretch of terraced land lying low, but intersected with raised paths passing between the fields and forming boundaries. In dry weather the flat top of the hill was an ideal place in which to pitch a camp. The air blew softly round it and cleared away the mosquitoes. The land-leeches, quiescent enough in dry weather, did not trouble the breezy summit, but remained dormant and hidden in the moist cultivation. The base of the hill was well wooded and on the southeast side it fell away in a gentle declivity towards the valley, the ridge losing itself in a tract of rich soil by the river.

Heavy rain in England temporarily alters the face of the country, creating pools and streams where roads and fields should be. In India a heavy downpour in the course of a single night will completely change the aspect and bring boiling rivers and large lakes into being. Cattle and sheep if caught by the torrent are carried away; huge trees are washed down and swept for miles along the submerged valley. Unfortunate, indeed, is it for the human being who is overtaken by the flood. It happened so with Benacre. He and his camp servants awoke the very morning of the day on which they had intended to strike the tents to find their promontory an island and every chance of advance or retreat cut off.

Benacre resigned himself to the inevitable and sat down patiently to await the break in the weather which must come sooner or later. Trenches were deepened round the tents by the lascars, and pegs were driven home. Contracted ropes had to be loosened, and everything made as snug and comfortable as was possible under the circumstances. For three whole days they were prisoners. The current on both sides was far too strong to allow of a boat being brought to their rescue; and during that time they were without the usual village products upon which they were accustomed under ordinary circumstances to rely, such as fruit and vegetables, fowls, goat’s flesh, and eggs, to say nothing of milk and fresh butter. The Paddybird had at last to face the melancholy fact that the larder, or grub-box as he called it, was depleted of its last tin of meat, its last potato, its very last bit of cheese and butter. The flour was finished, and there was not so much as a tin of sardines left. Nothing remained except the servants’ half emptied bag of rice, a string of onions, a box of gingerbread biscuits, and the condiments required for making curry. Meals for the retainers could be supplied as long as the rice and spices lasted. They could live on the glutinous liquid in which the rice was boiled known as congee-water, or on pepper-water and the rice itself; but this kind of fare was not fit to set before the master.

Benacre seated in his tent was busy with papers. Time never hung heavy on his hands as long as the office-box was within reach. Although it was not yet noon he worked by the light of a paraffin lamp, which in addition to illuminating the damp, murky air, served to dry it.

He looked up as with an apologetic cough the Paddybird entered. The cook’s dress was not such as he usually adopted when he sought an interview with his master. The flowing loin-cloth was rolled up tightly round his waist, and the long thin stork-like legs that had suggested his nickname were exposed from thigh to ankle. His head was covered with an old tweed cap, the lappets of which were tied under his chin. A merino vest, discoloured by the smoky atmosphere of an Indian kitchen, took the place of a shirt. Over the vest he wore an ancient serge coat that had once been dark blue, but was now mottled with grey. He was aware of its shortcomings, and had put it on inside-out, the lining being in a better state of preservation, and retaining more of its original colour than the serge. Though the rain continued to descend in unabated torrents the Paddybird had contrived to keep himself dry above the knees in his transit from the kitchen to the office tent by the aid of a palm-leaf umbrella. These useful but clumsy articles are a feature of the West coast of India. Every native furnishes himself with one in the rains. When in use they have the appearance of so many animated toadstools; and the mouldy emanations from the sodden humanity underneath them adds to the illusion.

“Any chance of escape, Paddybird?” asked Benacre, looking up from the writing of a report.

“No, sir; not at present,” replied the servant in a cheerful voice. “The copious mizzles continue, and the river bulges on both sides. There is water everywhere, frontside, backside, and sideside. I come to ask what your honour’s wishes are.”

He drew himself up and placed his hands behind him as though he were about to receive an extensive order for the preparation of a large dinner-party. Under no circumstances whatever must his own and his master’s dignity be forgotten.

“To get away as soon as possible; but we can’t move camp without coolies, and until they can reach us from the village we must be patient. Therefore I have no orders for you this morning. Have you anything to say?”

“Nothing to report except that it is the cooking that gives trouble, sir.”

“The wood is damp and the fire won’t burn, I suppose.”

“I can manage the fire inside the tent, each day drying what wood is wanted. No, sir; it is the grub only that gives trouble.”

The Paddybird was breaking it gently to his master. He had too much consideration for his feelings to make the announcement all at once, that they had arrived at starvation point.

“Is it too smoky inside the wet tent to cook?”

“No, sir; the grub cooks all right whether it is inside or outside the kitchen tent.”

“Then what the deuce is the matter with it?”

“Nothing, sir, except that there is none to cook. The grub box is empty and there is nothing left but one tin of biscuits, some rice and curry-stuff.”

“Oh! I see! Can’t you curry the biscuits?”

“No, sir, they’re gingerbread sort, not good for making curry.”

“What are you servants going to do?”

“Pepper-water and rice and congee-water,” replied the Paddybird indifferently, as though the diet of the camp-followers was of no importance whatever. He was not there to discuss their welfare but his master’s.

Benacre gazed at his faithful servant with a shadow of consternation on his face. Matters were apparently more serious than he had thought.

“I suppose I must be content with the same fare; only I bargain that you don’t put any of that infernal garlic in it.”

Disappointment crept over the cook’s face at his master’s inability to find any other solution to the difficulty, and he visibly drooped. He had been buoyed up with a vague hope that perhaps some suggestion might be made other than the sharing of the kitchen meals; but Benacre could think of no other, and he took up his pen to resume his writing. The Paddybird began to wriggle through the narrowest of openings in the fly when his master called him back.

“Let me know directly there is a chance of getting over the floods. I need not wait for the striking of the tents, but can push on to Inspector Hillary’s bungalow as soon as the water is low enough to wade through it.”

“I’ll go down and see for myself, sir, I can’t trust these fool lascars; they know nothing but tent work and how to gather wood.”

He caught up his umbrella and ran to the kitchen tent which was packed with the camp servants—the two lascars, the dressing-boy, the matey, the kitchen woman, and the Poochee. This last glanced up eagerly as his chief entered.

“What am I to make ready for the master’s lunch, little father?” he asked. “It is time that I began to prepare the food.”

“What a foolish question to ask when the grub box is as empty as a saucepan turned upside down!” retorted the Paddybird.

“I have found two sardines in the last box that we opened and which we thought was empty,” announced the Poochee with some pride.

“Good!” cried his relative, with a gleam of relief in his eye. “With curry-stuff, rice, and fried onion we can make a kedgeree sufficient for lunch. As for dinner——” he stopped and sighed.

“This morning as I was gathering wood at the lower part of the hill I saw two wood-pigeons in the tree,” remarked one of the lascars.

The Paddybird looked at him incredulously, and said—

“The rain has driven all the birds into the mountains. If it had not been so, should I have nothing but sardine kedgeree to give our master? Are you sure that you saw them?”

The lascar answered that he was certain. He had disturbed them in his search for old wood beneath the trees. They flew up and were beaten back by the rain. The cook allowed himself to be convinced, and declared his intention of going to look for them.

“The leeches are out; see what they have done to my legs,” said the lascar, exhibiting scarred ankles and calves.

The Paddybird’s lips closed firmly. He hated the leech, but it must be faced. He was not to be deterred from doing his duty by personal inconvenience. He took up his gun and examined it.

“If only I could keep it dry, I might get a shot,” he said hopefully.

A little later he emerged from the tent carrying his precious weapon wrapped in a piece of American cloth. Over his head he held the mushroom umbrella to be discarded the moment the game was sighted. He had promised his master that he would see for himself the exact state of the floods, and what prospect of escape was offered. If by good luck a bird remained on the hill he might bag it. The thought that his master should be reduced to servants’ fare was intolerable. It was “spoiling his master’s caste” and degrading him before the whole establishment to serve up plain pepper-water and rice on his table. As for himself—the cook—to send up such a dinner would be a disgrace to his profession and to himself personally for the rest of his life. It would be quoted against him by his enemies, and he would be pointed at with the finger of scorn as a cook of no resource.

The rain was less heavy than when he sought Benacre in his tent and asked for orders. Perhaps the worst was over and escape not far distant. Whatever the future might have in store, the necessities of the present were imminent. After the two sardines had been glorified into kedgeree there was absolutely nothing that the most ingenious cook in the world could fall back upon.

He trudged along through the sodden grass, following the ridge. Rills of water poured away in all directions, tumbling down temporary channels carved out in tortuous lines by the flood.

The camp was pitched on the highest point of the hill, and though he kept to the ridge he gradually descended. As he came down to the level of the valley the ground became softer, the streams spread out into swamps, and the vegetation grew more rankly. The land-leeches had been awakened into activity by the rain and the Paddybird was obliged to stop frequently to pick them off here and there from calf or ankle. At the foot of the hill there were trees. Some of them were worthy of a place in the primeval forest of the mountain slopes, where they would have been with their compeers. Others belonged to the shrub class. Every leaf was adorned with a fringe of crystal drops, and the thickest crown of foliage was saturated.

The Paddybird pursued his way to the uttermost point of the island, casting a critical glance over the broad stretch of water on one side and the river on the other. The brown flood swirled silently along on either side, obliterating stepping stones across the stream and raised paths on the flooded land. If the rain ceased that very afternoon, it would still take some hours for the water to subside sufficiently to allow of a man or a horse to pass. Under the most favourable circumstances his master could not escape for twenty-four hours; and twenty-four hours meant three meals for which he, the Paddybird, held himself responsible. Three square meals should in the ordinary course of events leave the kitchen tent in at least three courses. The dinner turned out by the most unpretentious Indian cook would comprise four courses. It was the Paddybird’s pride that whether in camp or at head-quarters he never sent up less than five to his master’s table—soup, fish or side dish, joint, pudding, savoury, and cheese. Last night he had turned out soup, a small quantity of mince, a savoury of fried onion and potato and a tiny bread pudding made of a few dried crusts.

He scanned the dripping foliage closely as he lifted a gory leg and deftly snatched away an attacking leech before it had time to do more than make the puncture. Not a bird was visible. He peered under the trees for a chance sight of a hare or of some other four-footed beast that might for once in a way be curried, but with no better success.

Having satisfied himself that the waters were at present impassable, and that no living creature except the leech and possibly a hidden snake lurked in that corner of the island, he turned back towards the camp. He determined to take a different path. It was just possible that there might be a wood-pigeon nestling among the rocks on the side of the hill overlooking the river. It was more sheltered than that part which faced the cultivated land.

The way was rough, the water flooding the bank and covering the usual game track that served as a path. To his left raced the muddy swollen stream; to his right was the steep side of the hill. By this time the rain had almost ceased and the clouds showed a rift through which a yellow ray shot slanting to the earth. The Paddybird knew the ground he was covering. In drier weather he had found snipe and teal as well as pigeon in that part, and he had not given up all hope of meeting with a head or two. At a certain spot the rock projected and formed a shelter from wind and rain. In this corner bird and beast might find a dry roosting place. If the pigeons had not forsaken the spot altogether they would be there.

He crept along cautiously, his keen eyes everywhere. If there had been any sign of feathered fowl among the leaves or upon the grey rocks it could not have escaped him. He stood still and listened. A faint guttural sound caught his ear. It was responded to by a similar dispirited cry. He recognized it and continued his walk.

A few yards further on he came upon a group of monkeys huddled together upon a ledge of rock under the overhanging crag. Though they had succeeded in keeping themselves fairly dry, they formed a very miserable little party. A monkey in the rain is like a lost child in a wet street. Its playfulness is quenched; it shivers with chill misery, and it is querulous and full of complaint.

The Paddybird forgot the leeches for the moment as he stood still and watched the animals. Again his eyes searched the trees and wandered over the face of the rock. With each inspection his gaze returned to the group on the ledge.

He placed his umbrella on the ground and examined his gun. The lock had been kept perfectly dry by its casing of American cloth. Then his eyes went back to the monkeys, and he watched one of them, a fine young animal with an overbearing manner, quarrelling with its neighbour for a more comfortable corner against the rock. The younger one was the stronger and it prevailed.

Pepper-water and rice for his master’s dinner! nothing more! There was not even a morsel of cheese or a bit of white bread to give a respectable tone to the meal; nothing out of which the weakest soup could be made, absolutely nothing out of which a sweet pudding or tasty savoury could be evolved, And this condition of affairs would last, judging by the appearance of the waters for at least twenty-four hours longer during which He had been over it all before, and the more he contemplated it, the more was he overwhelmed with shame. He was responsible for the furnishing of the grub box; not his master. To him was entrusted money to purchase supplies and there was no stint, no limitations to bring about a shortage. He had miscalculated. The unexpected had happened, and he had been caught unprepared, lamentably unready for the emergency. If it had happened to the Poochee he would not have been surprised; but for himself, an old hand at camping, to be so deplorably wanting in foresight, it was unpardonable.

The leeches, unrestrained by deterring fingers, were losing no time in their looping peregrinations. A sharp prick on the back of the neck reminded him that it was rash to remain long in one spot. The legions of the swamp had been awakened; their scent for blood was keen, and they raced along with curved bodies to the extreme ends of the blades of grass and sodden leaves. There they waited reaching out and groping blindly yet surely for their prey. They fastened upon his legs and arms and penetrated under his vest to his waist. Already the calves of his legs were adorned with groups of swelling bodies which would presently fall off satiated, each leaving a tiny stream of crimson to mark the spot where it had slaked its thirst.

The Paddybird hated the leech. He desired ardently to escape, but indecision held him to the spot. Should he walk away and disgrace himself and his beloved master for ever in the eyes of the establishment by dishing up rice and pepper-water, or?

A peculiarly sharp prick in the small of his back cut short further consideration. He raised his gun and a report rang through the dripping jungle. The overbearing animal that had assumed an aggressive attitude towards its fellows fell with a dull thud at the foot of the rock.

There was a panic among the little beasts. With tails curled over their backs and loud screams they scattered in all directions. The Paddybird waited to see if his victim moved. It lay perfectly still apparently dead. He was about to approach when a figure crept timidly up to the dead monkey. It leaned over the prostrate body, and seemed to ask what was the matter. It put out a black-fingered paw and touched the motionless limbs. With the touch came the knowledge that a catastrophe had happened.

The timidity disappeared, and in its place there was every sign of sorrow and despair. The creature wailed and uttered strange cries of grief. It flung itself upon the body of its mate, and then, turning upon the author of the mischief, it seemed to anathematize him in a guttural language of its own.

Strangely enough the monkey does not suggest the human being to the Hindu. He only sees the animal in it. The uncanny humanity of the emotion exhibited by the monkey’s mate did not move the Paddybird in the least. He hesitated to advance and take up his prey, not from any feeling of remorse for his action, but from fear lest he should be attacked and bitten.

Arming himself with some pieces of stone he pelted the mourner and she withdrew, snarling and execrating him with a show of white teeth. He picked up the dead body and thrust it into his capacious game-bag and hurried homewards. There was a rustle in the undergrowth as he tramped along the path leaving tracks of his own blood at every step he made. Now and then a wail reached his ear, but he heard it unmoved. Joy filled his heart at the thought that the master need not now be lowered in the sight of his retainers by sharing their grub. True, the Paddybird still had his difficulties, but he hoped to surmount them. In the thought of how he could best compass the ends he had in view, he paid no heed to the mourner that followed the corpse of its mate to the very outskirts of the camp.

The next morning all hearts were rejoiced by the sight of the sun. The clouds dispersed with marvellous rapidity; the golden rays licked up the moisture on leaf and blade; the leeches withdrew to their damp fastnesses by the river, and the monkeys, more peaceful now that their quarrelsome companion was gone, resumed their games among the warm rocks.

“That was an excellent curry you gave me last night for dinner, Paddybird,” said Benacre as he strolled outside his tent sunning himself and smoking his morning cigar. “I thought you told me that I should have to dine off rice and pepper-water. It was a pleasant surprise. What was the curry made of?”

“Hare, sir,” replied the Paddybird, promptly and without winking. “I was lucky in my walk to inspect water-floods and report on same. I met a Miss Puss and was fortunate enough to pot her.”

“I don’t like hare as a rule; but this was young and tender and uncommonly good. You should have roasted it.”

“No bread, no potatoes, no cabbage got; how could I make roast, sir? Next time only I roast.”

“I suppose I am to breakfast oS the same dish? There was plenty of it. Well, I shan’t grumble. Hullo! What’s that among the bushes over there? Why, it’s a monkey! Poor little beast! how wretched it looks! That must have been the creature I heard crying in the night. It gave me the most uncomfortable dreams. I thought I saw a monkey funeral with an endless troop of mourners led by a little beast just like that. It woke me twice.”

The Paddybird made no comment. In the absence of all other companions his master frequently spoke of matters that did not quite concern the kitchen or management of the lower servants. When he had finished the cook picked up a stone and threw it at the monkey.

“Shall I bring my gun and shoot it, sir? The lascars will be glad to have it.”

“Oh no! don’t do that! Poor little devil! I dare say its mate is drowned in the flood. I should almost as soon think of killing and eating a child as of killing and eating a monkey.”

“Not if master was starving?” asked the Paddybird, looking at him curiously.

“Yes; I think I would sooner starve than eat monkey.”

“Starving very bad business for the belly, bringing plenty of pain and trouble,” remarked the Paddybird, with the conviction of one who spoke from experience.

That afternoon after a good lunch on the remainder of the curry that had served for three meals, a couple of villagers arrived with a boat sent by Inspector Hillary. They also brought supplies; but they were not required for Benacre’s table as he decided to return with the men. Before he left the camp he went to the kitchen tent to give some final order to the Paddybird. As he appeared at the entrance the cook hastily threw aside a skin that he had been dressing.

“To-morrow morning if we have no more rain you will be able with the help of the villagers to reach the cart road. The dressing boy must come with me and do his best to cook my dinner to-night. I am afraid he can’t make a hare curry as well as you can. You must try and teach him when you get back to head-quarters.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“I see the monkey is still hovering about the camp, hoping to pick up something to eat, I dare say. Don’t shoot it or do the poor little devil any harm. I can’t forget how it came into my dream.”

“No, sir; I never touching it. I not that sort of man, sir,” replied the Paddybird, with a shade of injured innocence in his tone at receiving a second warning.

As Benacre walked away down the hill towards the spot where the boat awaited him, the Paddybird looked after his retreating figure.

“My master eat rice and pepper-water like a common coolie! Not as long as the Paddybird can carry a gun or cook a jungle hare with a long tail!”

One of the lascars approached. “It would give general satisfaction if the master’s honourable cook would shoot the monkey over there and give it to us to curry.”

“The master has given order for the monkey to go free. I am an honest man and I always do what master wishes. The monkey shall come to no harm, and I shall report the fact when I return. In a few days it will join the others and find a new mate. Now get to the packing. To-morrow morning the bearers will be here at daybreak. See that the tents are ready in time.”

He returned to the kitchen where with the help of the Poochee he prepared such a curry for the evening meal as put every one in the best of humours, and there was nothing left of the long-tailed hare but a few bones and a grey pelt.

Chapter VII

The Fugitive

The Assistant Superintendent of Police was back again at his old camping-ground at Ellapuram. The weather had cleared, and there was every promise of the monsoon holding off until the date on which it was due. The river, swollen with the flood a few days ago, had subsided, and once more flowed peacefully under the massive arches. The birds were busy where the waters had retreated. The flood had brought down dainty morsels from the jungle, green caterpillars, brown grubs, moths, and flies that pleased the most fastidious of the feathered tribe.

The white tents, clean-washed, shone in the sun, and dried under its tropical rays. A warm air laden with the scent of growing vegetation blew softly in at the open fly of Benacre’s office tent. Hillary had been on a visit to an outlying police station, where there had been a case of undue coercion on the part of the head constable; and he had called in on his way back to report what he had discovered. Varadia, the police peon, appeared at the entrance.

“A constable from Pothanur asks if he may speak with your honour,” he said.

Benacre broke off in his conversation with Hillary, and ordered the man to be brought in. The strange constable entered, and taking a slip of paper from some secret recess in his turban handed it to the Assistant Superintendent. It was written in the vernacular, and was to the effect that a murder had been committed near Pothanur. A native child had been done to death under peculiar circumstances that pointed to the horrible crime of human sacrifice. The murderer was of the Kurumba caste. He had been followed by Ramayan, a native detective known as a tracker, a man whose intuition equalled that of a bloodhound; with him sight and cunning took the place of the canine sense of smell. Ramayan had followed the murderer by a circuitous track for over a hundred miles, and had at last run him to earth in the magician’s cave under Doorga’s Peak. He asked for immediate assistance, not being strong enough to capture the fugitive without additional help. Benacre handed the note to Hillary, and turned to the strange constable.

“Where is the writer of this note?”

“Still watching the cave, sir. A week ago Ramayan and I started at daybreak, carrying food with us. For seven days and nights we have been close upon the heels of the man. Once we nearly caught him. He was asleep under the shelter of a rock; but his dog attacked us, and in beating it off we lost him. He is very strong. We shall want the help of two men to bind him.”

“You shall have them. Is he armed?”

“He was not armed when he went into the cave; but doubtless he will have found something there which he can use against us.”

“Go back to the tracker and help him to keep close watch upon the cave. It has no other entrance but that which is partly hidden by the creeper. The man cannot possibly escape unless he rushes out in the face of the tracker.”

The constable left the tent after the usual salaam. As he walked away, the Paddybird, by a curious chance, happened to be walking in the same direction. He carried his gun and informed the constable that he was going into the jungle above the village to shoot birds for his master’s table. In return for this piece of confidence the constable informed him of his own mission to the camp.

Ten minutes later Benacre and Hillary started on foot for the cave, taking Varadia with them. They descended the little hill on which the camp was pitched, crossed the bridge, and stopped for a few moments at the police station, a building that stood between the bridge and the village. They reinforced their numbers by two constables, so as to be ready to arrest the Kurumba of the cave should he prove obstructive.

The metalled road followed a winding track—necessary on account of the gradient—round the Peak to Doorgapet. From there it continued further south towards the native state of Cochin, which last place the fugitive probably had in view in his flight. There were short cuts by mountain paths from the village of Ellapuram to various places on the road which pedestrians preferred to the cart-road. One of these led by many zigzags up the lower slopes of Doorga’s Peak to Doorgapet; it shortened the distance by many miles, and took the traveller past the cavern chosen by the Kurumba as his abode. The cave was a suitable situation for him, having Doorgapet on one side and Ellapuram, the village by the river, on the other. It was among the inhabitants of these places that the magician looked for his clients.

The Superintendent and his companions arrived at the entrance of the cave after a walk of an hour up a steep ascent all the way. As soon as the path reached the great wall of rock, it ran for some distance almost due south upon a ledge some twenty feet broad, following the base of the precipice.

The Kurumba sat outside. He had built a fire of dried wood across the entrance, and the smoke obstructed the view of the interior. The tracker stood near, openly watching the glowing embers and cave beyond.

Benacre enquired whether the fugitive had made any attempt to escape. Ramayan replied in the negative; he was positive that the man was still imprisoned.

“You hear what the tracker says, father of the forest,” said Hillary in the speech of the country. “We shall have to enter your dwelling and take this man who is hiding there.”

The magician wagged his head in resigned assent; at the same time he threw a few sticks on the burning wood.

“No use feeding the fire; we shall have to put it out,” said Hillary firmly but kindly.

Again the Kurumba’s head nodded in assent, and he cast his eyes over the company with a scrutinizing glance. Benacre and Hillary stood close to him with the tracker at their elbow. The four constables had gathered into a little knot within a few feet. They were observing the man of magic with curiosity and trepidation. The Ellapuram police peons had taken care to inform the strange constable of the power of the Kurumba, and their story had lost nothing in the telling.

The hermit vouchsafed no reply to the Inspector. Rising from his seat, he turned to the crackling fire and sprinkled some powder upon it. The flames shot up with a scattering of sparks, and the smoke thickened.

“Come, old man,” said Benacre. “You need not think that we shall be scared away by your magic. Englishmen don’t believe in that sort of thing.”

The Kurumba’s eyes glittered as he stared at the speaker. From Benacre’s face they passed rapidly to the Inspector’s, and caught his glance. Hillary turned his back deliberately and faced the constables, addressing some question to them which apparently they did not hear. Their attention was taken up by the Kurumba and his actions.

“Your honour shall enter my poor dwelling,” said the magician; “but you will find no one there. The man went away as soon as I had given him water to drink.”

He cast more powder on the fire, and a smoke arose. Out of the smoke shot white flames, and there was a small explosion, by which sparks scattered right and left. At the sound, Hillary turned involuntarily from the constables to the fire. He looked sharply at the Kurumba, whose eye again caught his. Was he throwing loaded cartridges among the embers? All present watched him fixedly and with anxiety, apprehensive of another and more dangerous explosion. It did not come. The floating sparks were lost in the sunlight, and the smoke cleared away. Having shot his bolt in his own manner the old man seemed satisfied. He sank down into his favourite patch of sunlight near the entrance. The gleam died out of his eyes, his eyelids half closed, and he became unconscious.

“That’s all right,” remarked Benacre, relieved to find that there was no opposition.

“I thought he wouldn’t give us any trouble in the way of active opposition,” replied Hillary, as between them they beat down the fire and scattered the red-hot ashes among the green grass.

Before entering the cave the Inspector bent over the drooping figure of the Kurumba, and called him by name; but as he made no reply he did not attempt to disturb him further.

“‘Let sleeping dogs lie,’” said Benacre. “It is evident that he declines to be mixed up in the affair. So much the better for us. Place four constables at the entrance and form a cordon. You and I, with the tracker, will enter and take the man. You have the handcuffs ready?”

“Yes, sir; we need not fear firearms, but we must beware of the knife or dagger. He is sure to have found some sort of weapon inside the cave.”

They placed the constables in such a position that if by any chance the man evaded arrest inside the cave, he must be taken by them outside.

The cave was formed by a gigantic cleft in the rock. The walls were jagged and uneven with many smaller clefts and splits. A few of the crevices were large enough to admit a man; the rest might have been utilized for secreting property, but were too narrow to allow of a human being to squeeze in his body. There was not much furniture; a few brass pots, a bundle of rags, an old teakwood box, too small to hide even a child, and a wooden bedstead, known as a charpoy, constituted the whole. The charpoy was laced across with rough rope woven of cocoanut fibre, which formed a kind of network. Upon this was spread a grass mat. A hard, little pillow was at the head of the cot, and a folded blanket at the other end. Stretched at full length, his nose between his paws, lay a large brown dog. It was not asleep; but it kept very still, its eyes following every movement of the intruders. At the sight of it the tracker hung back. There is nothing that the native fears more in the flesh than a strange dog of doubtful temper. The legs of the Hindu are entirely unprotected, and a nasty wound can be made if the animal’s teeth close over the naked calf.

“That is like the dog which attacked us. It seems quiet enough,” said Ramayan, stopping by the cot.

The creature shrank under his gaze and shivered as dogs shiver when they are held in restraint.

“There’s another under the bed, a smaller one, but it looks fiercer,” cried Benacre.

“That one belongs to the murderer,” said the tracker, recognizing the beast. “It made for us when we tried to take him before.”

“If his dog is here, he must be here; but I’m blessed if I can see anything of him,” remarked Benacre to Hillary, as he prowled round the cave.

The light was subdued by the green curtain of foliage. The plant had its roots deeply embedded in a cleft high up above; trails hung downwards, festooned and interwoven, partially screening the entrance.

Not a sign of the fugitive was visible. A soft footfall sounded behind them, and Hillary turning, saw the larger dog that had been lying on the cot leap down and run out. Terror marked all its actions, yet, in spite of its timidity, the constables evidently feared it. Seeing it pause as if at bay, they speedily broke their cordon, and allowed it to dash past. Immediately it had gone, they joined up and reformed again.

During this little episode the Kurumba remained motionless in his spot of sunlight, his back against the brown-grey rock, and his head bent forward over his knees in his trance, unconscious, apparently, of all that was going on.

The eyes of the searchers were becoming more accustomed to the dim light. There was a slight bend in the cave. Benacre explored it to the very end, where it formed an acute angle of the same nature as the rifts and crevices in the walls. Up above their heads a large bat was disturbed. It dashed with blundering flight among them and fell to the ground, crawling to the side of the cave. Its leathern wings rustled in its awkward endeavours to climb up the rugged wall. Benacre looked at the tracker.

“You have missed your man somehow,” he said. “He must have sneaked out while you watched.”

“He could not have escaped my eyes, sir,” replied Ramayan, disappointment and vexation in his voice. “I must have seen him if he had come through this entrance. Is there no way out but this?”

“Look for yourself, and you will find that the cave has only one entrance. The walls are of living rock, massive and solid as the mountain itself. Are you sure that you saw him enter?”

Hillary was still hunting round, going over the same ground, once more. He joined his chief and the discomfited tracker.

“The man has undoubtedly got away,” he said; “but how he managed to give Ramayan the slip I can’t imagine. Is it possible that he escaped under cover of the smoke from the Kurumba’s fire without your seeing him?” he asked, turning to the tracker.

“It was impossible, sir. I sat in front of the entrance, within ten feet of it. The smoke went upwards, and if any living creature had come out—even if it had only been a rat—I must have noticed it.”

They issued forth into the open, empty-handed, to the astonishment of the whole party of constables. Vigilance was at once relaxed, and they crowded round the tracker, asking questions he could not answer.

“I wonder why that old man lighted the fire across the mouth of the cave,” remarked Benacre to Hillary. “There he sits, just as——”

He was suddenly interrupted by the arrival of the Paddybird, whose stork-like legs brought him with the celerity of a rocket into their very midst. In one hand the cook held his gun; with the other he pointed along the path that led to Doorgapet.

“I saw him! I saw him!” he almost screamed in his excitement. “He came out of the cave like greased thunder, and took his hook that way, sir! How did he manage to get through?”

“We have discovered no sign of him. He was not in the cave,” replied his master. “You can’t possibly have seen him.”

“I beg your honour’s pardon. I never telling lie word. With my own optics I saw the man leap from the cave through the creeper. He wore a brown coat and small brown cap. I would have fired at him, but I did not like to do so without order from your honour.”

“That was the man!” cried Ramayan, with an excitement as great as the Paddybird’s.

“You saw him!” exclaimed Benacre, incredulously. “You could not have done so. No man left the cave after we arrived. How could he have escaped us or have passed through those police peons without being seen?”

“The constables made room for him to pass. He stood for half a shake in front of them with plenty funk in his phiz. I thought then that they would catch him, but they broke their guard and let him hook it as hard as his shanks would take him.”

“You must be mistaken, Paddybird,” said Benacre, unable to credit the story.

The cook dropped into the language of the constables and of the tracker, and his tongue went at double the pace, as he described what he had seen, slightly exaggerating each point with every repetition. Conviction was overtaking the tracker, and, after a detailed account of the path followed by the criminal, he tightened his cloth round his waist, signed to the constable who accompanied him, and started off in the direction indicated. Before he had proceeded fifty paces there was a shout from Benacre’s constables, and cries of “There he is! In the cave!”

He turned back, and the police peons reformed the cordon instantly. Benacre went to the entrance and pulled aside the creeper, tearing down some of its strands to let a little more light into the cavern.

“By George, Hillary! the constables are right! Look! isn’t that a man at the end of the cave beyond the charpoy?”

The tracker, who was gazing into the interior answered the question—

“That is the man, sir. Look! he has a knife in his hand. These Kurumbas are very expert; they know how to throw a knife or a billhook!”

“There is no hurry to rush in at him. Now we know that he is there, he can’t possibly escape us,” said the Assistant Superintendent. Calling to the fugitive, he ordered him to give himself up quietly. “Come out, and we will do you no harm,” he shouted.

The only reply was a growl. Benacre moved forward, closely followed by Hillary and the tracker. The Paddybird was told to remain outside, an order he interpreted in his own way. The murderer retreated and the party advanced cautiously, followed by the cook, who peered from right to left with surprise on his features. Each man prepared himself for a sudden desperate spring and a plunge of the sharp knife. At the place where the bend in the cave occurred, the criminal stopped and stood at bay, his white teeth gleaming in a grin of rage, his eyes glittering with angry lights. Rage and terror found vent in a snarl that was more canine than human.

“Take care, sir; the dog will bite!” cried the Paddybird, as they stood together waiting for the signal from Benacre to close in.

“I don’t mind the dog. It’s the man I want,” he replied.

Before they could advance further, the figure sprang forward. There was a deafening report as the Paddybird raised his gun and fired. The cave was filled with smoke, and through the smoke came an appalling shriek, prolonged in its agony and dying away in a succession of moans.

At the sound of the explosion the constables rushed forward and met the party inside the cave as they involuntarily backed towards the entrance.

“Why did you do that?” demanded Benacre, as he turned angrily upon his servant. “I gave no order.”

“It was flying straight at master’s throat. If master is hurt then I am a gone coon. Can’t serve any other master besides your most gracious honour; therefore must protect master.”

“You fool!” was the vexed and ungrateful reply.

Hillary penetrated the smoke of the gunpowder, the tracker following close at his heels. The moans had ceased, and the stillness of death lay over the dark recess. In a few seconds they emerged from the murky interior, dragging between them the inanimate body of the brown dog. It was bleeding profusely from a gunshot in its chest, and life was extinct.

“Where’s the man?” asked the Assistant Superintendent.

The cook glanced at his master in astonishment, and was about to speak, when Hillary replied—

“There is no man, sir. This is the only creature to be found. Somehow or other we mistook it for its owner.”

He bore his unsightly burden out of the cave, and flung it upon the grass. Then he looked at the Kurumba, and met his eye. The noise of the report had roused the magician from his trance, and he was wide awake again. He rose to his feet and stood in the patch of sunlight against the wall of rock. The dark eyes under their penthouse-roof eyebrows glittered with a triumph that did not escape the Inspector.

The Paddybird was still talking volubly with a strange mixture of the slang he had learned from his sport-loving master in Ceylon, who had endowed him with the gun, and of the language of his present master.

“I saw no living man in the cave, sir, I swear. As your honour went inside, I followed, plenty afraid lest master should catch a clout on his head or in his chest with the knife and become a deader. But all the time I never seeing the man but only the dog. First it was frightened and tried to hide at the end of the cave. Then it stood still and stared at master, showing teeth and getting very angry. When it jumped forward I fired, because angry dog bite very bad business and making plenty sores on master’s legs!”

Benacre gazed at his servant in wonderment. Was he telling the truth or was he inventing a tale to excuse what would have been a culpably rash act had it been a man? But if it had been a man, how had the Paddybird managed to kill the dog?

The constables whispered among themselves and cast curious glances at the Kurumba, who continued standing motionless and unruffled in spite of the buzz of voices round him. He was observant and wide awake now, but uncommunicative. He watched the party as they walked away towards the village. The tracker alone remained. As soon as the last man belonging to the Assistant Superintendent’s party had disappeared, he signed to his constable to go in the direction the criminal had taken, intimating that he would join him presently. Alone with the Kurumba, he drew near and said—

“You son of a shoemaker! You grandson of a donkey! What tricks have you been playing on us? And how did you help that man to escape?”

The Kurumba started at the words of abuse, and his eyes flashed in sudden wrath. The tracker belonged to the East Coast. He had little knowledge of Malabar magicians, and less fear of their machinations. He dared to utter abuse which the inhabitants of the Western Ghats would have been afraid to entertain even in their thoughts.

“The man who escaped and whom you will never catch in this country is my brother,” said the Kurumba.

“Brother or no brother, I shall not rest until I lay my hands upon him and bring him to justice. When I have caught him, then I will come for you; and we will see how you will like the attentions of the police!”

There was a smile on the face of the Kurumba which exasperated the baffled tracker, and he broke into a torrent of abuse which caused him to waste precious moments that he could ill spare. When he had exhausted his vocabulary, and would have turned away, the magician uttered a few words of contempt, which reopened the floodgates. Suddenly he bethought himself of his quest and how he was wasting his time. He broke off and turned away abruptly, with a deaf ear to the tauntings of the wily Kurumba. Joining his companion, he resumed the work of the sleuth hound with a perseverance that was indomitable.

As Benacre walked back to the camp with the Paddybird in attendance, he said aloud, more to himself than to his companion—

“It puzzles me to know why I saw a dog where there must have been a man, and a man where I know there was only a dog.”

The Paddybird took upon himself to answer that query.

“It is as easy as winking to guess why, sir. That Kurumba made humbug for everybody but me. I was in hiding in the bushes, and his magic did not reach me. If I had been close to your honour all the time, I too, should have seen dog where there was man, and man where there was dog. That Kurumba very clever, almost clever enough to make a good cook, sir.”

Chapter VIII

A Leopard on the Path

Hillary was threading his way through the forest by a game track that took him over the shoulder of Doorga’s Peak and on to the edge of the downs. It was a path seldom trodden by the feet of man. The deer used it to reach the short, sweet grass of the highlands. For a human being carrying a load, and with some sense of the value of time, it was too steep in places and too rambling in others, where huge boulders obstructed the way, to be chosen as a desirable route.

Now and then he stopped to examine the ground. No sign of a human footmark was visible. The people likely to use it were the gipsy tribe—the Lumbadees, as they are called in India. These wandering men carry the inland produce from the plateau on the East down to the West Coast ports, and return with salt fish and foreign imports to the towns beyond the hills. They are a hardy race, immune from fever, like the jungle kurumbas, and as little known, except as passing travellers.

Hillary mounted higher, and the forest that clothed the slopes of the mountain grew sparse and less luxuriant.

“It is absurd to think that heavily-laden carriers would choose such a difficult road,” he said to himself, as he scrambled up the slanting face of an embedded rock. “Unless——”

Exactly so! Unless they transported stolen sandalwood westward, and returned with contraband goods—smuggled salt, unlicensed arms and ammunition.

Information had lately been received by the Assistant Superintendent of Police that rifles were finding their way into one of the southern native States. There was every appearance of loyalty in the government of the State, and its integrity was not for a moment doubted. It was this firm adherence to the British power that recommended it to the sedition-mongers as a suitable theatre for their operations, meetings, and the printing of disloyal pamphlets and newspapers. And now the authorities suspected that it was being made use of for the storage of contraband arms.

The Lumbadees were as intimately acquainted with the intricacies of the Western Ghats as the wild beasts of the forest themselves. They shared the instincts of the deer and the pig in traversing the dense jungle. Every game track was known to them; every shelter and every hiding-place. Never were they at a loss for water or for the points of the compass.

Hillary was familiar with their appearance as they filed silent-footed through the forest, bearing heavy loads upon their heads, and driving before them small bullocks, that seemed to possess the agility of the goat in climbing steep and rocky paths. He often stopped the men to ask a question or two in friendly fashion as to their destination and the burdens they bore. Many of them passed to and fro at regular intervals, and he recognized them with a kindly greeting. The questions gave no offence, but were accepted as evidence of his interest, and not mistaken for official curiosity. They grinned with pleasure when he spoke to them. Where is the human being who does not like to be remembered?

As he mounted the steep, rough game track, he continued to search the ground closely; so far he had to acknowledge that he had drawn a blank. The tracks of deer and jungle pig abounded. In certain soft ground where a spring oozed from a mossy bed, he found the footmarks of a shambling bear and the dog-like pad of a hyena.

The path emerged unexpectedly from thick scrub into an open space, a sunny, grassy slope where the grey rock cropped out in places and afforded no foothold for the larger vegetation. Ferns and moss, grass and flowers, clung to the edges of the rock. The intensely vivid green, dotted here and there with the small pink blossom of the begonia, contrasted strongly with the dark grey of the coarse granite, darkened still more by the trickling water.

He could scarcely believe his eyes when he distinguished the figure of the Kurumba seated in the sun to warm himself against the sharp air of the mountain. He was under the impression that he had left the old man far below, at the entrance of the cave, where he certainly saw him as he passed up the hill.

The luminous eyes met those of the astonished Englishman with an expression that might almost have been taken for amusement. It faded instantly, although the eyes did not lose anything of their intense vitality.

“Hallo! father of the forest! How did you get here? I thought I left you asleep just outside your dwelling,” said Hillary.

“I might have slept.”

“You can’t have slept if you walked here! Which way did you come?”

“The way your honour took—by following the path of the deer and the leopard.”

“The deer, yes; but why the leopard? I have seen no tracks of one to-day, and just now I should say that the forest in these parts was free from them.”

“Is not the leopard always upon the heels of the deer? Where one walks the other ever follows. Your honour does not like the leopard,” concluded the old man, with a keen glance into the Inspector’s face.

“I hate it! A nasty, mean, skulking beast!”

The words came quickly, and without reserve, and were accompanied with a slight shudder. It was rare for Hillary to express an opinion. He had learned caution by bitter experience, and was slow to speak of himself. Perhaps he felt that the Kurumba read his mind, and in thus speaking he gave away nothing that was not already known. The reply would seem to indicate that this was the case.

“Your honour hates it with the hate of the deer.”

Hillary did not answer. He was aware of the strange belief common among men of the Western Ghats, that each human being has a second self residing in some creature of the lower kingdom. Under certain circumstances, it is thought that the affinity shows sympathy, and can even give assistance to the other; and to this belief is attributed the sympathy or antipathy often felt by men to particular animals and reptiles.

The Kurumba rose to his feet with a slow movement learned by a life-long residence in the jungle. Unless startled no wild creature moves abruptly. It slips and glides and steals without sound as if always aware that enemies were abroad. He looked across the dense forest towards a bare, rocky patch on the hill opposite. Hillary followed his gaze but could detect nothing in the sunlit spot.

“Your honour does not see it; but it is there in the sun, a large, sleek leopard, spotted like the rock upon which it lies.”

The wizard of the forest uttered the shrill, prolonged cry of the vulture. Instantly the animal was on its feet, its eye searching the sky for the only creature it feared. The Kurumba made an abrupt movement with his hand, and the gaze of the disturbed beast was focussed upon the two men. They caught sight of its white teeth as it snarled angrily before it bounded into the jungle and disappeared.

“If I had had my rifle I might have killed it,” remarked the Inspector, regretfully.

“Its time is not yet come,” replied the fatalist. “Has your Excellency such a thing as a silver bullet?”

“My bullets are of lead. Why do you ask, wise one of the cave?”

“Sometimes silver will prevail where lead is of no use. I have a silver bullet—-”

He looked enquiringly at the Englishman, but met with no response.

“There is no need for it. If necessity should arise, I will ask the dweller in the cave—from whom none of the secrets of the jungle are hid—if he will give it me.”

“Does your honour know that Chellum has returned to Ellapuram?” asked the Kurumba, passing without a pause from one subject to the other as though they were connected in the subtle working of his brain.

“Is that so?” replied Hillary with fresh interest. “I was not aware of it. He is out of prison sooner than I expected.”

“For his good conduct he was given three months off his time. Aha! he is a clever man! He knows how to deceive those in authority! His jailers believed that he was good, that he was harmless, when at heart he was bad, very bad! Last night he came back, and to-day he walks to Doorgapet to seek his honour the Inspector.”

“Why?”

“He will say that it is by order of the prison people, that he may report himself. Maybe it is so; maybe not. The dweller in the cave sees further into his evil heart, and knows that he means no good to your honour. The leopard stalks the deer for its pleasure as well as its food!”

“And you think that Chellum will stalk me?” Hillary spoke with a shade of incredulity in his voice, which did not escape the ear of his listener. “I am not afraid. Let him stalk me if he likes. What can he do? See here, father of the forest; I carry this, and he knows it.”

He pulled out a small revolver. The Kurumba eyed it with contempt.

“Chellum has Kurumba blood in his body, though he is not one of us. His father was a man of the plains, but his mother was a hill-woman. He does not possess much knowledge. The little he has is sufficient to thrust aside the bullet that lies hidden in that small pipe.” He glanced scornfully at the slender barrel. “If your honour would use it against the man, let the true Kurumba cast the bullet, which must be of silver and moulded with pujah.”

“I have no intention of shooting Chellum; unless, of course, he makes a murderous attack upon me, which is not in the least likely. Then I think the leaden bullet will be enough to serve my purpose.”

“The man is as full of wickedness as a cunning old leopard,” persisted the Kurumba, with a shade of anxiety in his close scrutiny of the Inspector’s face.

“Undoubtedly; or he could not have been so cruel as to cut off his wife’s nose.”

“It is the practice of some men to be severe with their women when they give trouble. It was owing to your honour’s cleverness that he was caught and sent to jail.”

“The same might be said of many criminals in this district who have met with just punishment for their ill-doings.”

“And this man bears malice,” continued the old man, bent upon pushing home the fact that the Inspector had an enemy. “He will pursue secretly, and he will tear and rend like his brother the spotted beast, when he can find the opportunity. Your Excellency must go warily through the lonely parts of the jungle. No one knows when the leopard will strike its prey, and no man can guess when the evil-minded man will lift his hand.”

“Fear not, father of the forest; the gods do not help those who wish to work evil to the protectors of the poor. Was it to warn me against the vengeance of Chellum that you waited for me here? Yet, how could you tell that I should come up here—a path I have never taken before?”

“It was shown me in the crystal.”

Hillary was not ignorant of his claim to be a crystal reader. He let the statement pass unchallenged, and asked another question.

“I should also like to know how the wise one reached this place?”

“As I said before. By the path your honour took.”

The Inspector glanced at him with sharp enquiry.

“There was no mark of human foot upon the way; perhaps the wise one knows of another and easier track by which a man may come up the hill more quickly?”

“There is no other path than this, which the deer use. The Kurumba born and brought up in the forest, walks like the animal of the forest. He leaves no human footmark.”

It was useless to put any more questions of a personal nature. The old man would not answer them; or, if he did, it would be to claim supernatural powers in which Hillary had no faith. He went on to another subject that was of greater interest to the police officer, and in reality the object of his walk.

“Where does this path lead?

“To the downs that lie on the high ground in the eye of the rising sun.”

“Is it used by the Lumbadees?”

“Such steep, rough walking is troublesome for the bearers of heavy loads. Though their cattle can climb like monkeys, this path would break their backs under the burdens they carry. To reach the downs, the Lumbadees use the pass behind Doorgapet where the Government keeps the road in good order.”

Hillary let his eyes rest on the impassive features of the jungle magician. His face told nothing. Even the slight anxiety that had been there when he warned the Englishman of the ex-convict’s animosity had vanished. How much did he know of the deeds and misdeeds of the carriers? Was he hiding their smuggling operations, or was his information correct? He was still doubtful if the old man had come up the mountain side by the path he himself had used.

“I shall go back,” he said. “There is nothing to be seen up here.”

“To the village by the bridge?”

“Yes; I have business at the police thana.”

Hillary stood for a minute or two looking at the view which was a magnificent tropical scene. To the east were the mountains marked on the map of India as the Western Ghats. Some of their lower heads were crowned with forest. In places the grassy downs showed against the skyline, whilst here and there a massive peak or crag lifted its rugged points above its fellows and served as a landmark to the traveller passing over the highlands of the plateau.

To the west the mountains fell away sharply, the slopes being covered with limitless forest, dense and impenetrable, except by game tracks. From the foot of the mountains the rich land spread out in valleys and gentle undulations. Clearings for cultivation gave evidence of the presence of man. Terraced fields for maize and sugar-cane lay between plantations of bananas and areca palms. A river, low at this time of the year, wandered through the country on its way to the sea, flowing with a peaceful silence that contrasted strangely with the noisy impetuosity of its descent down the mountain side.

On the far horizon was a soft purple haze that hid the Indian Ocean. The big liners passed down to Colombo through the warm tropical sea and up again towards Bab-el-Mandeb, the Gate of Winds, at the entrance of the Red Sea. The English exile under the Indian sun cannot think of those links with the distant home of his birth without an intense longing for a sight of the familiar scenes on the other side. Hillary was an exception. There had been a tragedy in his life, which closed the door of all such longing. The past was dead, and he was dead to the future. A faint sigh escaped him as forbidden memory asserted itself. His companion heard it.

“What is written by the gods——” said the old man, with an instinctive, dog-like sympathy.

“Cannot be avoided, you would say,” rejoined Hillary, quickly.

The fatalist creed, with its curious anomalies, was no new thing. He did not stay to point out that the warning he had received of the presence of an enemy would be futile if the ruling of the gods were inexorable; but moved towards the jungle, from which he had emerged. The Kurumba followed closely at his heels.

“Are you coming with me?” asked Hillary, as he glanced round.

“Part of the way, if your honour permits.”

They passed down the mountain at a steady pace, crossing ravines and rocky nullahs, where in the monsoons the foaming water roared. They circled round huge boulders, and picked their way over embedded rocks, that caused the booted Englishman to slip unless he walked carefully.

The Kurumba kept some ten yards behind his companion. No conversation passed between them. When the track turned sharply Hillary lost sight of the old man, and was never sure that he would re-appear.

At one of these turnings round a mass of rock, he found himself face to face with the newly-released criminal. The latter stood in the path, and Hillary could not do otherwise than stop.

“It’s you, Chellum, is it? They have treated you generously in jail by letting you off the last three months of your sentence.”

“It was no favour, sir. It was my right. I earned it.”

He spoke respectfully, at the same time there was a ring of self-confidence in tone and manner that jarred on the officer. Chellum continued to block the way by maintaining his position. The path at this point was at its narrowest, the rock forming a wall on one side, and the thick jungle a barrier on the other. Hillary glanced over his shoulder in search of the Kurumba, but he had disappeared, apparently for good this time. Perhaps he had no wish to meet the man of whom he had expressed so bad an opinion.

“You are with your family again at Ellapuram, I suppose?” It was thus he spoke of the wife, for he had no children; to mention her by name was unlucky and impolite. “I hope that things will go smoothly with you. The crop on your little bit of land this year was good, and your brother did his best by it.”

The man listened in sullen, unresponsive silence to this expression of good-will, and when the Inspector had ended he merely said—

“I have been to Doorgapet to see your honour. I heard there that you would be found on this side.”

“I am on my way to Ellapuram. Come to the thana near the bridge to-morrow morning and report yourself. I am sorry you had the long walk to Doorgapet for nothing. Now let me pass. It is already past noonday, and I must be at the police station before sunset.”

The man did not move; he began to speak with some excitement.

“I have another word for your honour’s ear. It was through you, sir, that I was taken by the police; and it was by your evidence that I was convicted, because when you saw me beating my wife you failed to look the other way. It must be known to you, since the whole village is aware of it, that my wife is a bad woman. I ought to have cut her throat instead of her nose. Your honour cannot deny that she has done me wrong. Yet it was from you that Ramayan the tracker learned where to search for me. Had it not been for you and the woman herself who told you, I should have escaped.”

Hillary listened with a show of patience he did not feel. Whatever might have been the offence against her husband, the poor woman did not merit the revolting treatment she received. She was mutilated cruelly and deliberately, and the man richly deserved his punishment.

“I am placed here by the British Government to see that people like yourself who break laws, are brought to justice. Be careful in the future lest the Inspector should find occasion to send you before the magistrate again. Stand aside, Chellum; I must be moving on.”

The habitual gentleness had disappeared from his voice, and in its place was a certain sternness which in itself was a warning. Sullenly the man obeyed, leaning back against the thick jungle. As Hillary passed, they almost touched. The malignant expression on the criminal’s face did not escape him. The man appeared to restrain himself with difficulty from lifting his clenched fist. The absence of all sign of weapon set the other’s mind at rest on the score of a sudden, unpremeditated attack, and Hillary went on his way swiftly, and without looking back.

At the end of an hour he stopped and seated himself on a fallen tree. His lunch of sandwiches was still in his pocket. He pulled out the packet and slowly consumed the food. When it was finished, the pipe was produced for a short smoke.

The forest was very still at that hour—between three and four o’clock. It was too early for the creatures of the night to begin to stir, or for those that loved the day to retire. The sun flooded the earth with a warm, golden light that was beginning to find its way beneath the heavy crowns of the trees. Green, metallic beetles and soft velvet insects crept from their mossy beds on the great trunks, and revelled in the fervid heat. Birds awoke from their midday somnolence, and began to think of the evening meal. Paradoxical as it may sound, the silence was full of inarticulate sounds that spoke eloquently to the solitary man.

Yet, for all its peace, the forest held two enemies for him; the human being he had offended by helping on the course of justice, and the leopard whose path it would not be pleasant to cross. There was not much danger of an unprovoked attack; but if by chance a man happened to come upon it, the encounter might prove to be as unpleasant as a sudden meeting with an ill-tempered dog. It was true that he had his revolver; but the small bullet would go clean through a large animal without stopping it in its charge.

He glanced round and listened for footfall, animal or human, the snapping of a twig or the twittering of frightened birds as they warned each other of something that must be watched and treated with caution. The Kurumba had gone his way to the cave, satisfied that he had done what he could to put the Englishman on his guard. He had shown him the leopard, and given his opinion of Chellum’s character with unusual frankness. Hillary could not but feel touched at the action of the old man. He rose from his seat, put his pipe in his pocket, and resumed his journey, quickening his pace where it was possible.

Suddenly, fifty feet in front of him, a beautiful leopard leaped into the path. It dropped like a large cat from the lower limb of a forest tree, and like a cat it crouched and watched the traveller, its attitude was defensive but without any sign of fear.

Hillary stopped short and changed his long walking-staff from the right hand to the left. Then he slipped the right hand into his pocket and drew out the revolver. Exercising the discretionary patience that he would have shown to a dangerous dog, he waited, hoping that the beast would return to the jungle. After two or three minutes he ventured to make a movement with the stick. The device was not successful in clearing the path, although it had its effect. The leopard rose to its full height, stiffening its limbs till it seemed to stand upon its toes. The chief sign of growing irritation was in the tail; the end twitched to and fro with angry jerks. Hillary stood perfectly still, ready for the next movement.

On one side the hill rose steeply, on the other it fell away under a tangle of thick herbage. A snarl warned him that matters could not remain thus. A lowering of the body suggested a spring. He cocked his revolver and raised it. A report rang out, which was answered by a roar of rage.

He jumped aside, and sank out of sight in the fern and wild ginger. The furious beast charged past and disappeared along the path up the hill.

“The brute!” he said, as he crawled out of the dense vegetation. “I hope no one will be in its way as it makes for its lair!”

His mind was upon the Kurumba and Ghellum. He picked up his staff which he had dropped and continued his journey. At a point where the path branched a little further on, to his intense surprise he came upon the Kurumba. The old man was standing in an attitude of patient waiting, as though, incredible as it seemed, he had been there some time.

“Hallo! I thought I had left you a long way behind!” exclaimed the Inspector, unable to conceal his astonishment.

“Did your honour kill the leopard?”

“I don’t know. I think not.”

“It was impossible without the silver bullet.”

“How did you get down to this point without passing me? And how do you know that I fired at a leopard, wise one of the jungle?”

The old man paid no attention to the first question. In answer to the second, he said—

“There is nothing else that would need a bullet from your honour’s pocket gun—unless it were a revengeful enemy.”

“It was not Chellum, but a real leopard; probably the one we saw lying on the rock in the sun. I must find time to go after it with my rifle. The revolver is not much use against the brute.”

He continued his way towards Ellapuram, leaving the Kurumba where he found him. High overhead in the golden sky an eagle screamed. It was greeted by a savage roar of defiance in the distance.

“The beast must have been wounded, for the vulture smells blood. May its breakfast be leopard’s meat!” was the unspoken thought of the Inspector.

Chapter IX

Tigers’ Claws

After his second encounter with the Inspector the Kurumba moved slowly towards the cave, which except during the monsoon, was his habitation. It might have served equally well during the rains were it not for the necessity of paying periodical visits to the village by the bridge to buy the sustenance of life. Torrential rains made travelling through the forest almost impossible. Each little valley held a roaring torrent unbridged and without stepping-stones. Moreover, the leech was awakened, and insatiably thirsty. Even a Malabar magician with all his cleverness finds no means for providing for his physical needs through the weird occultism that is his inheritance from a long line of ancestors.

When the hour arrived for his departure the Kurumba was ready to go. He knew that rain was needed for the well-being of the world; and he submitted to his temporary exile without a murmur. All the same there was no place on earth he loved so much as his domicile in the heart of the living rock under Doorga’s Peak. He lingered to the very last minute, undeceived by temporary breaks in the weather. Then when the thunder roared and the lightning split the cloud cap on Doorga’s brow, he passed down to a drier climate in the low country, the migratory birds with like instinct scudding in the grey sky above in the same direction, calling to each other as they flew.

He shared his cave with no one, and few were invited to enter. That afternoon, as he pushed through the pendent trails of creeper hanging before the entrance, a figure rose and confronted him. The dark eyes glinted with a sudden flash of anger at sight of the intruder.

“I waited, brother, to speak with you,” said Chellum in an apologetic tone as he noted the expression. “Your help is required, and I am ready to pay for it.”

The Kurumba did not reply; but seated himself on an old charpoy where Benacre and the Inspector had seen the dog lying when they went to the cave to arrest the murderer who had taken refuge there. He signed to his uninvited guest to come and sit by his side. They drew up their legs and Chellum produced some betel. He rolled slices of areca nut and a pinch of lime in a green leaf, and offered it to his companion. Thus they sat in silence, the ex-convict waiting for the other to ask him his business.

Golden sunlight penetrated the green foliage and illuminated the cave. The eyes of the stranger passed over the recesses of the interior with an eager curiosity that was not lost upon the old man.

What treasures of gold and jewels, the offerings of well-to-do village people for nearly half a century—women eager to buy philtres and poisons, spells and charms from the wizard of the forest—might not be hidden in the clefts and holes dimly seen by the aid of the afternoon light. The thought stirred his greed, and he began to speculate upon the possibility of discovering the treasure some day when the owner of the cave was known to be elsewhere. His train of thought was broken by a rustle in the foliage curtain. A large bat crawled through the green leaves preparing for its nocturnal flight.

“No treasure is hoarded in this place,” said the voice of the Kurumba by his side. “There are too many thieves about.”

The other started and withdrew his eyes from the cave, turning them upon the bat that was quivering among the tendrils of the creeper as the blinding light fell upon it. How accurately the Kurumba had read his thoughts! He must be more careful how he allowed his mind to follow its bent.

“It would not be safe unless your Excellency lived here always. It was not of your treasure that I came to speak. I have great need of a powder that may be put in coffee without fear of being discovered.”

“Is the powder intended to make a little sick, or to give the person a long, long sleep?

“It is to produce the long, long sleep.”

“I have no such powder,” said the Kurumba after a short pause. “It can be bought in the bazaar in small quantities.”

“How is it possible to buy anything in the bazaar without the knowledge of the police? After the medicine had done its work there would be too many enquiries and then would come trouble.”

“The powder is cheap in the bazaar.”

“When a man requires a thing, he is ready to pay what is asked.”

Again there was a pause in the conversation. “For whom is the medicine needed?” asked the Kurumba, his keen eyes searching the face of the other.

“For a troublesome, childless woman whose desire has wandered in the absence of her husband.”

It sounded plausible, but the Kurumba was not easily deceived by a show of frankness. The suspicion grew in his mind that the poison was intended for some one who was more obnoxious in the sight of the visitor than the unfortunate wife.

“Buy what you want in the bazaar, I have none here,” he said with some brusqueness.

Chellum thought it best not to press the point. He began to doubt the wisdom of the confidence he had made. As he would have perpetrated any villainy under the sun for a price, he had naturally imagined that the man of the cave would have had as little scruple where money was to be gained. He was mistaken. It seemed that the old man had no such greed.

“I will do as you advise—that is to say if I make up my mind to use the powder. Does your honour know that there is a leopard prowling about this jungle?”

“I saw it this very day.”

“I have occasion to walk through the forest frequently. It would be as well if I carried claws of the animal on my person. My mother told me many years ago that neither leopard nor tiger would strike where a claw was hidden. Has your honour by any chance any tiger’s or leopard’s claws to sell?”

“Six weeks ago a tiger was killed not far from here. Its claws were presented to me by the man who killed it.”

“I will give ten rupees for four of them.”

“Shuh!” was the contemptuous rejoinder.

The Kurumba rose, and from one of the numerous clefts he drew out a packet tied in a piece of frayed calico. He opened the parcel and displayed several trophies extracted from the furry paws of dead tigers and leopards. Chellum picked out four large claws that matched in size, strong weapons fashioned by nature, sharp and deadly.

The bargain took long to drive; but it was completed at last, and the claws were handed over to the ex-convict in exchange for a sovereign, a bright yellow disc of gold that brought a sparkle of human pleasure into the eyes of the Kurumba.

“Now I shall be able to pass through the forest without fear,” remarked Chellum as he looked on with gratification whilst the old man knotted them into a fragment of calico.

“It would be as well if he who comes and goes like the rain would wear one,” said the Kurumba as he examined his diminished store. “He is constantly passing through the forest.”

The other uttered a scornful exclamation. “He laughs at such things. The wisdom of the Kurumba is child’s folly in his eyes; and your honour is no better than an ape in his opinion.”

“That is not a true word,” said the old man, sharply. “When did he say such things of the man he always calls ‘the wise one of the forest’?”

“As he talked with me a short time ago in the jungle he spoke thus. Your humble slave protested that it was not so; he would not listen.”

The spark of anger died as quickly as it was kindled. The Kurumba had overheard all that passed from the top of the rock under which the Inspector and Chellum had stood.

“The sun is low, brother. It is time for you to go.”

The visitor rose to his feet. The money paid for the claws was still in the Kurumba’s hand. Chellum’s eyes lingered upon it with greedy longing, and once more his curiosity was roused. Where would it be secreted? On his person? or in some secret place within the cave? Remembering how his thoughts had been so accurately divined only a short time ago, he mastered his inquisitiveness with an effort, and passed through the creeper curtain out into the cool evening air. In the deep shadows the dew was already falling, and wisps and fragments of white mist floated over the tops of the trees in the valleys.

“You are not afraid of the leopard?” asked the Kurumba.

“I! the brother of the leopard, and carrying the tigers’ claws! Let others fear the spotted beast! They have better reason to be afraid. If the Police Inspector is clawed by a leopard or mauled by a tiger, I, for one, will not lament. The country will be well rid of a troublesome person in whose mouth are too many questions.”

His words sounded like a threat, although they did not contain one. The Kurumba glanced after him as he moved away. He had vouchsafed no reply to the tirade. Neither reply nor question were needed. The mind of the vindictive man was like an open book, and the old jungle seer understood all that was implied.

The next hour was passed in the preparation of the evening meal. When it was ended he again seated himself on the charpoy, not to sleep but to think. There were two or three points that puzzled him. To what extent was the Englishman in danger with Chellum so near? Was murder intended? With a man of Chellum’s temperament it must be so. Nothing less than the death of his enemy would satisfy him, and that death would be compassed with a refinement of cruelty and pain positively fiendish in its nature. How could he convince the Englishman that he walked in constant danger of being done to death in some way or another?

He would laugh at the idea. The Kurumba believed that he could help him with spells and charms; but he would have none of them. The assistance must be given in some other form.

Another matter that perplexed him was the reason why the claws were purchased. Chellum must have needed them badly indeed to have paid the price demanded. There were men in the bazaar who would have supplied claws at two rupees each or even less. He had given him more than double, asserting that they were required as charms; yet when he asked if he was afraid of the leopard the idea was rejected with scorn. Was he not the brother of the beast? Then why should he be seeking a charm to protect him against hurt from the animal. According to the belief current among the people, including the Kurumba himself, the human affinity had nothing to fear from his animal affinity.

He left the charpoy and blew up the embers of the fire upon which he had heated his supper. When the charcoal glowed he sprinkled some powder upon it. Filling his nostrils with the smoke he breathed it out of his mouth and fixed his eyes upon it to see the vision that should have been there; but the smoke was a blank. No figure moved in its hazy depths; and nothing was suggested to the brain.

He took out his crystal, seated himself close to the little lamp that he had lighted after the sunlight faded, and earnestly gazed into the prismatic depths. Again he was unsuccessful, and disconcerted more than a little, for he was not accustomed to fail.

Suddenly a fact that he had overlooked sprang into his mind. The mother of Chellum was a Kurumba. The blood was working and spell was opposed by spell. Whatever might be the limitations of the half-bred magician he was strong enough to hide himself and his doings from the other. With an exclamation of annoyance he laid down the crystal and turned his attention elsewhere.

Even if the Inspector would not receive a charm as a charm, he might possibly be prevailed upon to wear one by some other means; protection would thus be given in spite of his unbelief. He had picked out a claw and put it aside after his visitor had chosen the four purchased. This he took up and placed upon a piece of dried palm-leaf, upon which he had inscribed a charm. The leaf with the claw was encircled with hot embers and enveloped in smoke. As long as the smoke rose the old man murmured muntrums and made passes with his hands. For more than an hour he subjected the claw to various ceremonies by which he believed that the potency of the charm might be increased.

The following morning early, the Kurumba waited at the police station near the bridge. As soon as he caught sight of the Inspector he hurried towards him.

“Your honour was good enough to save the life of his slave when a tiger would have killed him.”

“That was your good fortune, ancient one.”

“For some time past your servant has desired to give the slayer of the tiger one of the claws. See, I have put a small silver ring in this one—the second claw of the right fore-foot, the most powerful of all—so that your honour may hang it on the silver chain and show all men how he has killed the striped beast of the jungle.”

He pointed to the watch-guard. “You would like me to wear it?”

The Kurumba made a deep salaam that in itself was eloquent. Hillary may have divined the superstition underlying the gift, or he may not. Anyway he accepted the gift as a token of the old man’s good-will. To the latter’s intense gratification he, then and there, slipped the claw on to a ring that held an unpretentious locket belonging to a dead past.

As the Kurumba climbed the hill behind the village, he stopped more than once to look back. He was not without his misgivings. Charms and spells were the chains by which he believed that evil might be bound and held; but if the hand that handled the chain had no faith behind it, who could rely on the efficacy of the charms? Even the gods themselves must fail if they had no faith.

Chapter X

A Trap

Hillary, passing to and fro in the forest on his rounds of duty, saw no more leopards. He mentioned to the headman of the village of Ellapuram that he had fired his revolver at one in the jungle behind the village. He was of the opinion that it was wounded but he could not be certain. A search was made at once for signs of blood but without success. No trace of the animal could be found, and had he not seen it himself on the two occasions when it was lying in the sun and when it confronted him in his walk through the forest, he would not have had much faith in its presence. The headman was inclined to think that it had been wounded and had crawled into some secret hiding-place among the rocks to die. If it escaped the bullet, it probably took fright and left the district.

The fact that it had come and gone without leaving a single mark of its presence was regarded by the villagers as uncanny. The women and children were careful not to go far from their huts in search of firewood; and the headman was implored to perform pujah as he set a huge steel-fall trap near the spot where the Inspector had seen the animal. Among their many superstitions spectral beasts had a place as well as the affinity creature. Although Hillary had refused the silver bullet offered by the Kurumba, the chief shikari of the village was more circumspect. He paid a visit to the cave and for the price of two rupees received a bullet that was half lead and half silver. It had been cast with strong spells, the maker assured him, and would prevail against any evil man or spirit who had assumed the form of an animal; or against those strange beast-brothers believed to be bound to human beings who share their natures.

Thus provided the shikari spent many days in the forest but without seeing a leopard of any sort. The gin—with toothed jaws sufficiently powerful to shatter the leg of any animal short of an elephant that stepped upon it—was cunningly set at some distance from the village in the midst of a thick jungle of thorn through which none but a creature of a cat-like nature could crawl. It was baited with a piece of meat that should have proved a tempting morsel. Daily the shikari visited it hoping to find a victim for whose benefit the silver bullet was ready; but the trap remained unsprung. Hillary and the constables as well as the villagers had been carefully instructed as to its exact position so as to avoid all chance of accident.

The Inspector, busy with matters that concerned his business in life, thought no more of the incident. One morning early he started from his bungalow at Doorgapet to walk to Ellapuram. It was only just light as he left the house. The forest lay still and silent in the veil of mist that had gathered in the night, to be dispersed by the first rays of the sun. The foliage was heavy with dew which fell in a shower of moisture as the deer left their feeding grounds to return to their sheltered retreats in the depths of the jungle.

The path to Ellapuram was little better than a game track. Like others used by the deer and wild pig, it turned and twisted in its avoidance of big boulders and masses of out-cropping rock. Some of the ravines through which it passed, opened out with patches of grass and fern. In others the undergrowth was dense and thorny, tangled and bound together with luxuriant creepers, some of them armed with formidable thorns.

The way was well known to the Inspector, and where it was open he strode along at a good pace. In other parts it narrowed between a wall of rock on one side and thick jungle on the other, and progression was impeded. As he walked he occupied his mind in weighing certain evidence that had come to his knowledge of a crime committed in the terraced fields below Doorgapet. This evidence was too strong and too circumstantial. Its completeness savoured of artificiality, and he strongly suspected that it had been manufactured to put him off the scent and give the criminal time to make good his escape. In the midst of his cogitation he was startled by a sound on the rocky eminence above. It suggested the rattle of deers’ feet upon the hard rock.

He came to the conclusion that he had disturbed some jungle sheep that were still feeding on the edge of the ravine through which he was passing. He wondered rather vaguely why they had taken a difficult upward path among the rocks instead of making for the forest lower down as was their custom.

Apparently their hoofs dislodged a quantity of loose fragments of rock, for a perfect avalanche fell just in front of him bringing him to an abrupt stop. They came from a considerable height and plunged down with sufficient force to strike a heavy blow.

He was congratulating himself on having escaped a severe and perhaps dangerous peppering when suddenly there was a sharp clang of steel. The fangs of the big steel-fall sprang together, appearing above the vegetation that covered the path within five yards of his feet. A boulder of rock weighing some pounds had fallen directly upon the flange of the trap releasing its spring.

It had been set in the very centre of the way where the path was completely fenced in on either side, allowing no divergence from its track. Had his steps not been arrested by the clatter of the deers’ hoofs and the fall of rock, he must inevitably have stepped into the middle of the infernal machine. The steel jaws would have caught him near the knees, inflicting fearful wounds. Few people passed that way, the road being preferred even though it was longer. It was impossible to say how long he might have remained before assistance came. It might have been hours before he was released; by which time he must have bled to death.

All this flashed through his mind as he stood there looking at the steel-fall. His nerves were strong, and it took more than a little to shake them. He sustained something of a shock, however, as he faced the facts and drew his own conclusions. It was impossible to suppose that the trap was there accidentally. He with the rest had been duly informed that it had been set lower down in the jungle. It could not have moved of itself. Some person had deliberately taken it from the spot where the shikari had placed it and had brought it here, with what intention it was not difficult to divine. A leopard was not the prey aimed at, for the trap was devoid of bait. A stag was equally unlikely. Since mankind had used the path the deer had made for themselves another track.

For whom was the trap intended?

That villainy of a fiendish nature lurked beneath the action he was convinced. He could not bring himself to believe that it was meant for him. He stooped down to examine the deadly contrivance more closely. Something like a shiver passed down his spine as he noted how the sharp jagged teeth dove-tailed into each other like a couple of saws joined tooth within tooth. The trap was securely fastened by a chain to the stem of a tree, a staple being driven in on the opposite side, so that the chain if it were strained, had some purchase on the rough trunk. For a wounded man in danger of bleeding to death with every movement he made, release would have been impossible without aid.

In every detail the cruel scheme was thought out with fiendish ingenuity. Even in the choice of the situation cunning showed itself. At no other spot was the path so overgrown by rank herbage as this, nor so hedged in on either side. The soil was damp under the shade cast by the rock and jungle, and the foliage overhead subdued the light. The path afforded cover sufficient to hide the trap from the sharpest eyes. If the startled deer had not dislodged the stones, causing him to stop at that particular point, the catastrophe must have occurred. There was no doubt but that he had had a providential escape, and he knew it. Death had been nearer on more than one occasion in the past, and had been left for dead once on the battlefield; but never had the grim spectre stared him in the face so baldly and so unexpectedly.

He loosened the chain that confined the trap to the stem of the tree. The task was not easy, even with the assistance of a piece of rock used as a lever and hammer. When it was accomplished, he stood looking down at the murderous weapon in perplexity. It would not do to leave it there. The villain who set it might return to repeat his villainy. Neither would it be safe to attempt to hide it in the jungle, his footsteps would betray him. It only remained for him to carry it to Ellapuram, hand it over to the headman, and order him to place it under lock and key.

This was not a matter to be passed over in silence. Prompt action must be taken to discover the culprit and bring home the crime of attempted murder—it was nothing less—and the sooner the constables were set to work the better.

He threw the trap across his shoulder and strode towards his destination, the chain jangling with each step. As he moved away, too deeply immersed in thought to glance round, a man, crouching on a ledge of rock above the path, leaned forward and peered over at the retreating figure. It was the Kurumba, and his features worked with unusual passion.

“Only just in time! only just in time! The blue jay screamed and the monkey chattered the news only just in time! A few steps more, a few minutes earlier, and he who comes and goes like the rain would have been where the leopard should be—that man-leopard whose mother was of my people! The claw is no good. It cannot save him. Some other means must be found. And the Kurumba will find it; for is not he who walks like the deer in this forest the Kurumba’s friend?”

Hillary met the headman at the entrance of his hut. He was about to go down to his field, where the members of his family were busy preparing the land for the coming monsoon. He listened to the tale with a horror that was genuine. The peaceful villagers were not addicted to crimes of that character, and the story was difficult of belief. The word of the Inspector could not, however, be doubted, and he was compelled to face it and promise to do all in his power to elucidate the mystery.

“Who could have moved it, sir?” he asked more than once in his perplexity.

“That is what I want you to help me to find out.”

“It must have been the work of some evilly-disposed forest spirit. It could not have been done by any of my villagers.”

“Without doubt it was a devil of some sort; but he had the shape and form of a man when he set the trap,” replied Hillary, grimly.

“Has your honour any enemy at Doorgapet?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

“I know of none in this place. It might be thought that Chellum bore malice; but that is not so. Only three days ago he spoke well of your honour in my hearing, saying that you were just even though you might be severe.”

“The people were aware that I was expected this morning?”

“Certainly; since your honour arranged to meet the man who has lost his cow.”

“Was any other person coming from Doorgapet this morning?”

“Not that I know of.”

“It looks as if the trap had been set for me; but it is difficult to believe that any one, however aggrieved he might feel at receiving just punishment for his wrong-doing, would dare to make an attempt on my life. The sentence would be severe.”

“It cannot be the deed of one of my people. If your honour will make enquiry, it will be found that it was done by some one in Doorgapet, or further away still,” said the headman, unwilling to allow the crime to be fathered on his village.

Hillary made no reply to this suggestion. He glanced at the trap.

“Keep that thing under lock and key. After what has happened it is not safe to set it again. Is there any other like it in the village?”

“This is the only one in the district. It is borrowed sometimes by other villages, but it is not often used. Had it not been for your honour’s report that the beast was savage and probably wounded, I should not have allowed the shikari to set the trap. For the safety of the people it was best that the leopard should be caught and killed.”

Hillary went on to the police station, transacted his business, received reports from his constables, and gave directions for enquiries to be made concerning the incident of the morning. He noticed that the men received his orders in silence, and had no suggestions to offer. He wondered if they already had their suspicions, and whether they pointed in the same direction as his own. He did not mention the name of the ex-convict whilst he was in the thana, but as he left the building he signed to Varadia to follow.

“Is Chellum at his house this morning? If so I should like to speak to him.”

The constable was a man of few words, more at home in the jungle than in the city. He was credited by the villagers with the gift of understanding the language of birds and animals, and he possessed a talisman that was supposed to prevail against evil spirits. Therefore he walked fearlessly through the forest at all times of the day and night. The man replied shortly.

“No, sir. He left the village two days ago with his wife.”

“Where were they going?”

“Down the valley to buy seed for the land.”

“Bring me news of them when they come back.”

Two days later Varadia appeared at Doorgapet and asked to see the Inspector.

“Well?” said Hillary as he went into the compound, where Raju, his head servant, could not overhear what was passing. “What news have you to give me?”

“Chellum has come back safely, and his wife with him. But she went into the jungle immediately on her return to cut firewood, and she has been killed by a leopard.”

“Then the brute is still prowling about! It must have been the same that I saw and fired at.”

“The same, sir; a wicked beast, for the woman is terribly clawed and bitten.”

Chapter Xi

A Visit to the Wizard’s Cave

There was an inquest, and the native doctor gave evidence to the effect that Chellum’s wife had undoubtedly died from the effects of a vicious attack made by a leopard. The marks of claws were to be seen all over her poor unprotected body—cruel scores, several inches in length, that laid the flesh bare to the bone. Two of the brute’s claws had penetrated her brain. He volunteered the opinion that the leopard was mad; the wounds were viciously made and unlike any he had seen before. Probably it was maddened with the pain of its own wounds. She must have come upon it suddenly in her search for firewood. It was startled, and attacked her savagely. And with this verdict the village agreed.

In spite of the husband’s unnatural cruelty towards his wife in the past, he showed every sign of grief at his loss. The funeral feast was arranged on liberal lines and included everybody in the place. It lasted for three days, and not a single guest doubted his attachment to the unhappy childless wife.

Whilst Chellum was playing the part of the bereaved husband with such success, Hillary took the opportunity of going down to the town where the grain was bought. He questioned the grain merchant from whom the purchase had been made. The latter described the man and the woman. She was easily recognized, more easily than the man. Had he a scar on the cheek? The merchant thought he remembered the mark, a thin black line. Yes, he was sure of it. And the hour? It was soon after sunrise, for the grain seller had only just opened his stall. He was positive as to the date. It was the very day when Hillary had found the trap.

If Chellum was in the distant town buying grain, how could he be in the forest tampering with the deadly gin?

The Inspector was not ignorant of the wily ways of the native when he would prove an alibi. Personation he knew was carried to a fine art in the East; but no one was likely to help the ex-convict in such a piece of villainy. He was not popular in the village, whereas Hillary was. If he had been suspected of having designs against the Englishman, there were plenty of people ready to give a hint of the contemplated crime.

He questioned the merchant closely concerning his acquaintance with the brother, and was assured that one had not been mistaken for the other As he returned, he considered the case from every side. He tried to recall bygone events that might have provoked the enmity of other men of the district; he could think of no one who would be in the least likely to carry his resentment so far as to set a deadly steel-fall in his path. He had been the cause of the conviction of several offenders; but when the Hindu is dealt with justly, he takes his punishment with resignation and bears no ill-will towards those who bring him to justice.

The more he thought over the matter, the more convinced he was that the miscreant was no other than the lately-released man, who had paid some one to personate him in the grain bazaar. Some curious twist of the mind caused mental blindness to the iniquity of his action in mutilating his wife. From the Hindu husband’s point of view he was within his rights in taking the law into his own hands. Long tradition and established custom gave him the power to correct her faults. To interfere was infringing his privilege, and to imprison him for his deed was injury. It was, therefore, perfectly natural that an ill-tempered man like Chellum should bear malice, and he felt morally convinced that he and no other was the offender. How to bring the crime home to him the Inspector for once was puzzled to know.

He did not let the matter rest. Several visits were paid to Ellapuram without any fresh discovery. Chellum was at work in his field in company with his brother, always respectful whenever he encountered the police officer. It was a busy time for the agriculturists, and the greater part of the population was to be found during the hours of daylight on the terraces near the river.

The only individual who seemed to have spare time on his hands was the Kurumba, He was encountered more often than usual. Whenever Hillary had occasion to pass through the forest, he was waiting for him at some unexpected corner or turn. Sometimes he chose to walk a little way with him. More often he followed some twenty paces behind, disappearing as mysteriously as he appeared without a word of explanation or greeting.

“Has your honour seen the leopard again?” asked the old man one morning.

“No; nor any sign of its tracks since it killed the woman.”

“Did it kill the woman?”

“Why, of course! What else could have mauled her so badly but a brute of that species. The mark of the claws were plainly to be seen, large claws, almost as big as those of a tiger.”

“It might have been a tiger.”

“A man-eater would not have left her merely mauled. I think the doctor was right in saying that the animal was maddened by the pain of its wounds, and that it killed her in its rage.”

“Does your honour carry the little pocket gun?”

“Always; but the father of the forest thinks there is more worth in this,” replied Hillary, gravely, as he pulled out his watch-chain and showed the claw still attached.

The Kurumba gazed at it a few seconds, grunted in doubt, and turned away. He was not as satisfied as the Inspector imagined.

Early one afternoon, Hillary made his way back to Doorgapet after a long round that took in some villages lying near the river. He knew the forest well, and followed a path that was not often used because of its ruggedness. It shortened his journey, however, by at least three miles.

He was half-way up the hill-side when he met Chellum. The man appeared suddenly, stepping out from behind a rock where he had been waiting. This method of obtaining an interview was common among the people of the villages. If a man had private information to communicate or a request to make, he usually sought the person from whom he required the favour in some secluded spot. Inquisitiveness on the part of his family or neighbour was thus avoided, and the conversation that passed not likely to be heard.

Chellum carried a staff in his hand, the top of which formed a knob about the size of a man’s fist. These staves were familiar enough in the eyes of the Inspector. Not only were they weapons of defence against the attacks of wild animals, but they also contained a receptacle for a letter or currency notes in the hollow of the knob.

Hillary greeted the man, who returned the greeting with the usual salaam.

“What is it that you want?” asked the Englishman.

“I am thinking of leaving Ellapuram if your honour will give me permission.”

“What about your land and its cultivation?”

“My brother will see after it. Since my wife died I have found no comfort in my house. The head constable tells me that I must obtain your honour’s leave.”

“I can get the leave for you. What are you going to do?”

He stated his intentions, and Hillary saw no objection. After a short conversation, satisfactory to both, Chellum asked—

“Has your honour seen the fresh marks made by the leopard?”

“No; where?”

“A few steps from this very spot; not more than fifty paces in the jungle. Perhaps your Excellency would like to look at them.”

“Which way?” asked Hillary.

“Behind the rock.”

“Lead on, and I will follow.”

The man made a few steps forward. The jungle grew more thickly; to enable the Englishman to walk with greater ease, he held back the branches that impeded them. Hillary, off his guard, went on in front. The fingers of the ex-convict worked rapidly at the knob of his stick. A semi-circular cover that fitted on vertically was unscrewed and slipped into the pocket of his coat. The sinewy hands gripped the staff, the exposed inner half of the knob being held towards the chest.

Chellum looked at the broad back of the Inspector as though calculating the distance required for dealing a blow. The blow must be sufficient to stun his victim at the outset. There must be no chance of the revolver being produced. It could be best given as he stooped to examine the scratchings on the tree. Then he glanced down at the murderous weapon in his hands. It was of diabolical design. The four sharp tigers’ claws that he had purchased of the Kurumba were firmly rivetted into the flat surface of the solid half of the knob. A single blow administered with force would be almost as deadly as a blow from the paw of the beast itself.

“Where is the tree?” asked Hillary, pushing his way through the tangled undergrowth.

“A little further on, sir, where the jungle is not quite so thick.”

The Inspector directed his steps towards a large forest tree with a stem like a column in a cathedral. It rose straight to the blue sky at least forty feet before it spread the branches that bore its crown of glossy foliage. Through fern knee-deep and a network of creeper he forced his way out into an open glade, and found himself face to face with the Kurumba. Chellum, following close at his heels, dropped his staff as if it had been struck from his hand, and an exclamation of surprise and annoyance escaped his lips. It was a sight for which he was entirely unprepared, so assured was he that the old man was safe in another direction. He recovered himself instantly, and had enough presence of mind to turn his back upon his intended victim before he stooped to pick up the stick. It was the work of a few seconds to screw on the cover, and when he joined Hillary and the old man no sign of his defeat was visible in face or manner.

“You are looking at the leopard’s marks, father of the forest?” said Hillary, who had sufficient experience of the Kurumba’s ways not to be astonished at unexpected encounters.

“A strange beast, to score the tree with its claws in that manner!”

“It must have been a very large leopard,” observed Hillary.

“The scores are long—and they cross.”

“Perhaps two animals have been sharpening their claws. What do you think, Chellum?”

“That your honour is correct.”

“I must let the Assistant Superintendent’s cook know. If we hear of a kill he will be glad to sit up for it.”

Hillary began to retrace his steps. When they reached the path the Kurumba said—

“I will walk with your honour through the jungle. I have business in that direction.” He looked at Chellum, who stood as though he awaited further developments, undetermined what to do. “There is no need to wait, brother. Go back to your home in peace. You have no fear of the leopard.”

“You don’t believe that I am safe, wise one,” said Hillary, as they resumed their tramp towards Doorgapet.

“The pitfalls of the forest are many for the deer, and its worst enemy is the leopard. Pass on in front, Excellency. Each time you turn your head and look back you will see the Kurumba following twenty paces behind.”

Chellum walked slowly in the direction of his village. He was annoyed at the frustration of his design. The spot he had chosen was well suited for the contemplated crime. The wild animals would assist in effacing the deed; and if whitened bones and decaying clothing were found later, it would be supposed that the leopard had had his revenge on the man by whose hand it was wounded. So satisfied was he with himself, he did not suspect that the Kurumba was watching him more closely than any detective.

The path led him near the cave. As he passed he gazed with longing into the dark shadows. The sovereign he had paid for the four claws was probably hidden in some recess. The Kurumba’s denial that he kept his treasure there was in itself a testimony to the contrary. Of course he hoarded his wealth in the place where he ate and slept, like the rest of his fellows.

He had not proceeded far when the thought struck him that this was a favourable opportunity to examine the cave. The Kurumba had gone to Doorgapet, and could not return under three hours at least. No companion shared his dwelling, and being half a Kurumba himself, he was not troubled by the awe which influenced the villagers and made them hold everything belonging to the magician as sacred.

He retraced his steps, and pushed his way through the hanging curtain of foliage without hesitation.

Something moved by the wall. After the dazzling light of day, it was difficult to distinguish any object in the cave. His eyes must get used to the deep shade. Was it a dog? He had no wish to encounter any such guardian. A sound reached his ear that caused him to o start violently. It was the voice of the Kurumba.

“Come in, brother; I am here.”

The words were spoken mildly and without anger. Gradually the intruder distinguished the form of the old jungle wizard seated on the floor with his back to the wall of the cave.

“Your Excellency knows the forest well to have returned so quickly. There must be paths that lessen the distance,” stammered Chellum.

“Ask the leopard when next you meet him.”

“Your honour is doubtless tired, and not ready to hear my request. I will take my leave, and go on my way.”

He turned to leave the cave, in haste to depart before any uncomfortable questions were put as to the reason of the intrusion. The mild voice again hailed him.

“Stay, brother; there is no hurry. The sun is still above the horizon. Stay and talk with an old man who has too many lonely hours on his hands.”

The other paused and looked round. It was difficult to believe his ears. He anticipated nothing less than a furious outburst of anger at the liberty he had taken. Instead of it, he received a mild invitation to remain.

“I will remain if it is your Excellency’s pleasure,” replied the visitor in a propitiatory tone.

The Kurumba signed to him to be seated on the mat by his side. He made him welcome further by offering him a roll of betel. This distinct mark of hospitable friendliness dissipated the last doubt and set the mind of the trespasser at rest.

“Your brother is working on your land,” remarked the Kurumba. “He is a quiet, industrious man. I saw him in the field when I was last that way.”

“And I go to the coast to trade in salt fish. He has lately married. I have no wife now; it is fitter that he should remain in the house and that I should be the wanderer. It will give me an opportunity of finding another wife. There are none to my taste in Ellapuram. She must be young and have jewels of some value. In these days when the lives of infant girls are preserved, it becomes difficult for parents to find husbands.”

They talked of the prices of men who were reckoned desirable connections by marriage, and of some of the weddings that had taken place recently in the villages of the district. Gradually Chellum brought the conversation round to hoards of wealth and the most suitable places for secreting gold and silver.

“I should be glad if your Excellency could recommend a place where I could hide the few bits of gold that I have gathered together.”

The Kurumba’s eyelids flickered, but otherwise he showed no emotion. It was a strange question. Advice regarding the hiding of treasure was the very last thing a native would be likely to ask of another. A man would not even take counsel with his father in the matter.

“It is difficult in these days, when the fire-carriage brings all sorts of strangers into the hills for a man to choose a place that is secure. It would be better to take your property with you.”

“Gold and jewels cannot be carried about on one’s person when one is travelling and trading. I have thought it over, and have determined to leave mine behind.”

“Why not with your brother?”

“He has a wife. A woman is never to be trusted with jewellery.”

“The safest hiding-place that I know of is where my own treasure is hidden.” the Kurumba said slowly and deliberately, with a dull eye fixed upon the wall opposite.

His companion glanced round at the dark recess at the back of the cave. He could not see to the end because of the curve in the fissure of rock. The other followed his glance, and added—

“My valuables are not here.”

“I was going to pray your Excellency to allow mine to lie with yours.”

It was a bold request, and Chellum watched with some anxiety to see how the suggestion would be taken. It was greeted with a grunt.

“It is asking a great favour. I can scarcely hope that your Excellency will grant it; but unless you help me I don’t know where to turn.”

His tone became more and more apologetic, and the hope he had cherished of discovering where the Kurumba’s treasure was hidden died away under the uncommunicative grunts with which his words were received. There was silence, and a whistling thrush could be heard addressing its plough-boy’s song to the western sun. The old man seemed in danger of falling into one of his trances when the squeak of a bat awoke him.

“An excellent plan—a most excellent plan!—that is to say if the spot I have chosen commends itself to you.”

The other could not restrain his eagerness in his surprise.

“Where is it?” he asked, unaware of the greed that shone in his eyes.

“It is down by the river some distance from here.”

“Can I find it by myself?”

“It is not necessary. I shall show it you, and if you approve you shall put yours there.”

“When can you go?”

“There are ceremonies to be performed. Pujah must be made to the river god, or he will give trouble. Come here to-morrow as the sun mounts over Doorga’s shoulder, and I will lead you where you will see a sight that will cause your eyes to start from their sockets in astonishment. Not a word must be said.” Here the speaker grew mysterious, and his words were interrupted with many grunts. “Tell your brother that you go down the valley on business. After you have seen for yourself, we will arrange another trip together to store your property in the same hiding-place as my treasure. Now depart to your house. The sun will soon be in the sea.”

He rose and led the way, thrusting aside the trails of creeper and letting in the golden rays of the setting sun. The haze over the low country in the West was of a warm purple. Sky and earth seemed to melt into each other, and the line of the shimmering Indian Ocean was invisible.

Chellum had no eyes for the magical influence of the tropics. His mind grasped but one idea. He had succeeded in obtaining a promise which, if fulfilled, would answer his highest anticipations. He was to learn the secret hiding-place of the Kurumba’s hoards. Since the old man had shown himself so amiably disposed, he ventured to put a question that might solve the mystery of his speedy return to the cave.

“Your honour did not go with the Inspector after all?”

“Ask him when next you meet him how far the Kurumba went. He will tell you that it was to the edge of the jungle on the Doorgapet side.”

“If that was so, your honour must have come back with the speed of the deer.”

“Or the wing of the bat. Go, brother; though leopards may not put fear into your heart, there is the snake.”

The Kurumba disappeared within his dwelling. Chellum was not satisfied to be thus summarily dismissed. He hoped that the old man was going to walk a little way with him. During the walk he intended to make enquiries in a delicate manner as to the amount of wealth he had collected in his lifetime.

“Brother! brother!” he called. “I have one more word to say. Come with me down the hill.”

He received no answer. Chellum, who was not wanting in boldness where his interests were concerned, took the liberty of pushing aside the foliage. The slanting beams of the sun flooded the cave with light. To his astonishment no sign of the magician was visible. Again he called, but received no answer. Curiosity was thoroughly aroused. He re-entered and walked straight in, penetrating deeper than he had ever been before. The fissure in the rock narrowed and turned slightly, so that the end was not visible from the entrance. Aided by the light of the few rays which at that hour pierced the foliage curtain, he ventured to the very extremity. The Kurumba was not there. He looked round, but there were no clefts large enough to hide the form of a man. Of smaller cavities there were many. He was about to put his hand into one of them when something fell upon his neck. It felt like a piece of thin wee leather, into which wire hooks had been woven. A curious, high-pitched squeak revealed its nature. It was a bat! A sudden horror seized him, and he fled.

Where had the Kurumba hidden himself? Had he seen and spoken with the actual man or was it his image—his other mysterious self? Or had he taken the form of a bat?

He recalled the tales his mother had told of the ways of her people. They had been related boastfully, and not with a view of instilling terror into her children. From her too he had heard of the stores of wealth accumulated by members of the tribe who practised magic. As he wended his way home, his mind concentrated itself on the new scheme. Thus far, everything had been in his favour. He was impatient for the next day to begin.

For the present the Inspector might walk the forest in safety. He would not be the next victim to fall under the cruel claws of the wild beast; and Chellum smiled grimly as he glanced at the staff he carried.

Chapter XII

Treasure

Before the sun had shot a single ray over the Peak, Chellum appeared at the entrance of the cave, so great was his eagerness to learn the secret of the Kurumba’s hiding-place for his treasure. This time he did not venture to intrude without an invitation, but waited until the hermit signified that he was ready to receive him. After a short interval the foliage was pushed aside and the dweller of the cave appeared, his dark eyes alight with some mysterious activity of the brain.

“It is not the hour to start, brother,” he remarked.

“Was I not told to come early?” replied the other in justification.

Whatever he felt, he did not wish it to be thought that he was unduly anxious to be off.

“I have preparations to make. Come into the cave. The morning air is cold.”

Chellum was quite ready to fall in with anything that might be suggested, as long as his end was attained. He accordingly entered and took a seat upon the mat usually occupied by the old man. With a great show of patience that he did not feel, he kept silence and watched the Kurumba, as he put together the various things that would be required for the pujah to the river god. They were stowed away in a sack ready to be shouldered when the hour for leaving arrived. Every action was completed without haste. Sometimes the deliberation was exasperating in no small degree to the looker-on. At last his preparations came to an end, and Chellum rose under the impression that they were about to start; but he was disappointed. The Kurumba bade him be seated again whilst he lighted a lamp. The lamp was placed upon the floor in front of the guest.

“Give me your hand, brother,” said the Kurumba.

Chellum obediently extended his palm, upon which was laid a fragment of looking-glass.

“Hold it so that it reflects the flame of the lamp into your eyes. Now, watch closely. When the proper moment arrives to start on our journey, the flame in the glass on your hand will dance and throw out sparks. As we pay the visit to the river on your account, to you it is given to mark the time of departure.”

They sat for a while in silence, the Kurumba making a pass with his hand now and then before Chellum.

“The flame dances?” suggested the magician, watching him intently.

“The flame dances,” repeated the other. “It rises and sways just like a nautch-girl.”

“Sparks fly to right and left?”

“Sparks fly to right and left as though blown by a gentle breeze,” repeated the other, dreamily.

“It is time to go. Out, flame! Thou hast done thy work!”

He extinguished the lamp and rose, his companion following his example. Picking up the sack with more haste than he had hitherto shown, he pushed through the creeper curtain, followed by Chellum. A dead leaf stirred on the path touched by the morning breeze.

“Take care of the dog,” said the Kurumba, again watching his companion.

“Aha! a dangerous-looking beast! Where does it come from?”

“A village dog hunting for its early meal. You need have no fear.”

“It is the dog that should have fear in its heart! A leopard seeking its breakfast would put an end to the dog’s hunger and its own.”

“Well spoken, brother! That is certainly so,”, responded the Kurumba as he set the pace.

They marched on without further conversation. The forest was full of waking sounds, and a sweet smell rose from the dewy vegetation. High up in the tops of the trees, where the sun laid his finger, birds rustled through the foliage, twittering and preening their feathers as they shook off the moisture after their morning bath in the dew-drops. An awakening butterfly crawled from beneath a broad leaf that was impervious to the dew. It opened its black and green wings and made its toilet, cleaning its long clubbed antennae and brushing away the microscopic dust that had been gathered from the under side of the leaf. A jungle sheep that had been browsing since the first streak of dawn called to its mate to follow into the security of the recesses of the forest, where it fondly hoped to hide itself from its many enemies.

Lower down where the ground was swampy and less steep, the wild pigs rooted with contented grunts among the rank herbage; and nothing came amiss to the greedy beasts, whether it was a bitter tuber, a beetle grub, a dead rat, or a succulent fruit.

In places the way was barred by strong juicy vines, that required severing with the curved blade carried by the Kurumba in his waist-belt, a supple silver chain hidden under the dingey loin-cloth. He led his companion with unerring instinct, never at a loss when to turn to the right or the left at the intersecting of the intricate game tracks. Lower and still lower they went, rarely speaking a word. They passed a secluded tank surrounded by terraces of rich fertile land. The water swarmed with wild-fowl that were seldom disturbed by the sound of a gun. The tank and land belonged to the temple of Doorgapet, and formed its chief source of revenue.

The crispness of the higher altitude was no longer in the atmosphere. A soft warm moisture met them, like the humid air of a hothouse. They were in the region of tree ferns, terrestrial orchids, and the wild caladium.

A gaudy plumaged toucan with an enormous beak, disturbed by the travellers in its feast of wild fruits, moved clumsily among the branches, looking as if it must overbalance with the weight of the beak. So rare was the presence of man in that part of the forest that the bird showed no fear. Its movements were prompted by curiosity.

The foot of the hills was reached and the forest exchanged for low jungle. The land spread out in gently undulating stretches that merged into level meads of rich coarse grass. Through this grass country wound the river, a ribbon of blue on its bed of sunburned mud.

The Kurumba directed his steps towards a part where the river widened into a large pool. An island of rock stood in the centre, about thirty feet above the surface of the water; it was crowned by a small temple erected on its summit. The building itself was not more than eight feet high; but it was sufficiently raised above high-water mark to escape being submerged when the river was in flood. The blocks of roughly-dressed stone with which it had been constructed were quarried on the spot. No attempt at ornamentation was visible, and the lines of the building were crude and mean. Considering the nature ascribed to the river god by his worshippers, it was perhaps appropriate.

At the river bank they stopped.

“Do we wade across?” asked Chellum, as he gazed at the dry mud flat lying between himself and the water.

“It is too deep. We might swim, but it is not necessary.”

He walked further down the bank. Hidden in a depression was a small coracle, which he bade Chellum lift and bear down to the water’s edge. A long pole lay by the boat; this the Kurumba carried.

The coracle was launched and allowed to swing down on the stream. The Kurumba punted the boat over to the other side, and as it touched the shore of the island the two men jumped out and drew the coracle from the water.

The island was bare of vegetation except for a few blades of grass that grew round the base of the temple wall. In the monsoon when the river was in flood, the water rose to the temple steps. It swept across the surface of the rock with a force sufficiently great to clear away any plant life that might have found foothold in the dry season. Nothing remained then to be seen but the ugly dome and low walls. Since the shrine was dedicated to the river god—a malignant local demon that caused the death by drowning of all those who neglected his worship—he took care to protect his temple by diverting the full strength of the stream against the northern bank. The current spent itself harmlessly in washing away the unwary jungle pig seeking for the flotsam and jetsam of the flood, and in transporting snakes and other reptiles to the irrigated lands of the villages lower down. On rare occasions, after a more than usually large deposit of these unwelcome castaways, the villagers sent offerings by their pujaris in the hope of propitiating the troublesome demon, and prevailing upon him to stop the supply; or, if he must send them, to transport the undesirable aliens to their neighbours’ fields.

No sooner had Chellum put his foot upon the island than his impatience peeped out, and he began to move towards the temple.

“Stay, brother; pujah must be done first or the waters will rise suddenly and drown us.”

He turned and waited while the Kurumba prepared to make his offering. As to ritual, the old man was a law unto himself. He lighted a fire with some sticks brought for the purpose, warmed a small brass pot of butter and burned incense and camphor.

Then from the bottom of his bag he took out some lumps of goat’s flesh and threw them into the water bit by bit, uttering a low cry not unlike the melancholy wail of a waterbird. A gentle splash as if an enormous fish had moved, and a soft sucking sound denoted that the offering was accepted.

“Is it always necessary to make the pujah?” asked Chellum, as he was at last allowed to proceed.

“Not every time a visit is paid. After a long absence it is advisable, if one desires to return in safety.”

“Must the offering be given by the hand of a pujari?”

“Any one can do as much as has just been done. If you have occasion to remove your treasure and I am not here to help, you can present the offering, taking care to burn the sweet-smelling gum and camphor as I have done. Are you not of Kurumba blood?”

Chellum received this information with a grunt of satisfaction. It seemed as though the Kurumba, in the absence of all suspicion, played into his hands at every turn. They climbed up the little eminence to the natural platform on which the temple was built. The view in its noble proportions was magnificent. The river, a rippling, slowly-moving current, spread out like a sheet of blue and silver in the morning sun. On the east the mountains, heavily cloaked with their forest mantles, rose intensely blue in sharp outline against a sky that had not yet lost the gold of the sun’s uprising. To the west the fertile plain stretched in a level tract towards the sea. In the distance patches of palm and plantain groves could be distinguished interspersed with glossy belts of grain and sugar-cane. The horizon was lying under a purple haze of heat which enveloped the warm, shimmering Indian Ocean.

The door of the temple was of teakwood, massive and bound with iron. Upon its panel a mysterious diagram stood out distinctly in black and white. Its meaning was easy to divine, for those who understood the ways of the Eastern magician. It held a curse for the rash individual who should break or in any way injure the door.

The Kurumba did not attempt to hide his actions. He felt for the key in one of the interstices between the unmortared blocks of stone and drew it out openly from its hiding-place. It was rusty from little use and of clumsy design.

“Come nearer, brother, and I will show you how the key moves,” said the Kurumba. “When it is first put in, it must be pushed as far as it will go. Give it half a turn and pull it forward, thus, otherwise there is a check.” He did not, however, open the door at once. “We must again wait for the signal. It is you who must look for it, since we are here for your sake. Keep your eyes fixed upon the sunlight on the river. It is white now like silver. Presently it will grow red. As soon as you see it change colour I will open the door and show you a sight that your eyes have never beheld before.”

Again he made a few passes with his hands.

“The water grows red as if the setting sun shone upon it.”

“Good; now enter.”

He put his weight upon the door, and it creaked on its hinges as it yielded inwards. They had to stoop to enter. The sunlight penetrated with them and illuminated the interior, which was without a window or aperture of any kind. A low cry of astonishment burst from the lips of Chellum as he glanced round the little room.

In the centre stood a small image of the river god, squat and ugly like his shrine. The eyes protruded and the thick lips parted over an array of canine teeth in a cruel smile. The idol, however, was forgotten in the extraordinary sight that met his eyes.

On all sides lay a wealth of treasure that surpassed his most ardent expectations. The whole floor was taken up with piles of money, of gems, of gold and silver ornaments such as the Hindu women of the West Coast of India wear. Wire necklaces strung with gold mohurs, gold bead collars, bracelets and armlets of the precious metals, pendants set with uncut gems, their fires undeveloped for want of the diamond-cutter’s art; rupees in neat columns, gold sovereigns heaped, loose gems—sapphires, rubies, emeralds, diamonds and pearls—lying unsorted near the coins.

He was bewildered, stunned and rendered speechless by the marvellous display. It was a treasure worthy of a Rajah. It must have been accumulated during many generations of Kurumbas.

“See, brother! Here lies my hoard of sovereigns. I add to-day the one you paid me for the claws,” said the Kurumba as he dropped the bright yellow coin upon the heap. “You heard the ring of the metal?”

“As clear as a temple bell! But tell me, swami, are you not afraid that your hiding-place will be discovered and your treasure stolen?”

“Who would dare to intrude upon the river god? No man is bold enough or rash enough to do such a thing.”

“Have you ever counted your wealth?”

“What need have I to count that which is of little use to me? Year after year it lies there. I have no wife or child to clamour for jewels.”

“Then what will become of it when you can no longer come here to feast your eyes?”

“Before I die I shall tell my disciple that it is in this temple, and he in his turn will come to feast his eyes. The sight of gold and precious stones brings comfort to those who live solitary lives.”

“And will your Excellency allow me to place my poor property with yours?”

“That is why I brought you here. Have no fear. Come when you like, always being careful to close the door and place the key in the same hiding-place. Tie your money and jewels into a bundle so that they do not become mixed with mine. I will clear a corner for you.”

He sat down on his heels, and Chellum with him, and began to shovel aside the jewels as if they were so many pieces of wood. Lifting a necklace, he handed it to his companion. It was laden with old coins that would have rejoiced the heart of a collector. The chink of the gold pieces was music in the ears of the ex-convict. Its value, he estimated, must be several hundreds of rupees. One such jewel would suffice to set him up in business in the town on the West Coast, where he intended to trade. He counted more than a dozen similar ornaments lying there. One or two would not be missed. The Kurumba had just admitted that he was unaware of the number or the value of his possessions. Money and gems might be abstracted without discovery.

He glanced at the owner of all this wealth. If his attention could be diverted! But no; the old man’s eye was alert. If he was not watching his hoard, he was fully alive to every movement on the part of his companion. Peculation at the present moment was out of the question. It would be a mistake to spoil everything through greedy haste.

At a sign from the Kurumba he handed back the necklace and rose to his feet, reluctantly passing out into the brilliant daylight. The door was closed and securely locked, and the key restored to its hiding-place in the masonry.

“The Kurumba respects the property of his tribesmen,” said the old man. “Had it not been for your blood, brother, you would not have been permitted to come here.”

“Your belongings are safe,” responded the other, eagerly. “I regard them as sacred, and I am anxious to add mine to yours. To-morrow I cannot come; but on the following day I will be here at this hour.”

“Good; and if I cannot meet you, brother, take the key and open the door as I have done. No need to wait for me.”

“Perhaps to-morrow would suit you better. I might manage it.”

“To-morrow I go beyond Doorgapet, and cannot be here. It is a lucky day for beginning a new business. A man and his family enter their newly-built house, and I assist in the ceremony.”

“Will it be necessary for me to do pujah if you are not present?”

“There is no need for pujah when you come two days hence. I will make a special offering to the swami soon after your visit.”

As they talked they stood upon the summit of the island. At the lower end down the river the rock ran out into a long spit or tongue, which in the condition of the stream was two feet above the surface of the water.

A large, misshapen object lay motionless in the full light of the sun. It might have been a log of wood—the trunk of a tree washed down the hill-side—that had stranded in the last flood. The next freshet would carry it another stage on its journey to the sea. The Kurumba glanced at the log and then at his companion. Had he observed the object?

The stronger will was working, and it decreed that the mind of the other should be filled to the exclusion of all else with the vision of gold and be absorbed in the greed that the vision had raised.

The art of hypnotism is better understood in the East than in the West. The operator knows how to seize his opportunity; he also comprehends the full value of the different grades in the condition of the hypnotized; when thought alone may be influenced, or when suggestion may produce action. Nor is the subject aware of his state. He is caught off his guard; his will is inactive; he falls into a brown study; perhaps fixes his eyes unconsciously upon a point of light or brilliant colour, and he does not observe a scarcely perceptible pass or two made by the hand. With nineteen people out of twenty, the hypnotism is complete, although the subject remains in ignorance that a new condition has been established.

“Put the boat in the water,” said the Kurumba.

Their rudderless circular boat slowly revolved as it made its way across the shining water towards the river bank. The Kurumba thrust his long pole into the depths until it almost disappeared; and as he leaned his weight upon it he repeated the cry of the waterbird. The melancholy wail floated over the surface of the river and reached the ears of the servants of the swami. At its sound the log raised itself slightly and slid away from its sunny bed into the cool depths below.

Again the man of magic studied his companion. Had he seen the thing move? Was he aware that the servant of the river demon was none other than the deadly muggar, the Indian crocodile, aptly termed by a well-known writer, the undertaker?

No; the man was still in his golden dream. His eyes beheld nothing but what that gold would procure as soon as he could secure it for himself. No trading for him with such wealth within reach! No dealing in foul, salt fish, the smell of which was loathsome! He would buy a house in Bombay and live in luxury, the material luxury that is the end of most men’s desire in the East.

The dream continued as he climbed the hill behind his guide in a charmed silence that felt neither fatigue nor the dullness of a companion who had nothing to say.

At the point where their road parted, Chellum to go to his house near the village of Ellapuram, the Kurumba to climb higher to his dwelling under Doorga’s Peak, the man of magic blew a short blast on a whistle. The sound startled the other, and he looked round bewildered as though suddenly awakened.

“Here we part, brother,” said the Kurumba, his keen eye fixed upon the other’s face.

“We part,” he repeated stupidly. “We have been to the river, and you have shown me much treasure—your treasure, swami. I did not know that you were so rich a man.”

“It is not known to any other in the village. Keep the secret and speak not a word of what you have seen.”

“Trust me, most excellent one! I am as a man that has no tongue and no eyes.”

“We meet two days hence.”

“In two days’ time, swami!”

Chapter XIII

The Undertaker

It was dawn on the day following the visit to the temple, and the sun’s rays crept over Doorga’s shoulder, illuminating the forest and awakening birds and insects.

Chellum issued from the door of his hut, staff in hand, carrying a sack. At the bottom of the sack lay the few personal properties that comprised his luggage. His brother stood in the doorway; and his sister-in-law blew up the fire of sticks on which she had warmed some coffee for the traveller.

“Some day I will return and take count of the crop you have raised on the land,” he was saying,

“When may we look for you, brother?” asked the young wife.

“I cannot say. It may be after the next monsoon; it may be after many monsoons. Much will depend on the success of my schemes.”

He turned away and left the little yard that enclosed the hut. The woman rose from her knees and stood by her husband’s side, watching the retreating figure—a well-built man in the full strength of middle life.

“He will make a good trader,” remarked the brother with a touch of pride.

The grunt that greeted the observation had in it a note of dissent. The keen perception of the woman who was bound by no ties of blood saw deeper into his character than the near relation.

“His hand is too large; his grasp too big. Moreover, there is something behind his mind that goes beyond the salt fish business.”

“It is marriage.”

“That is not how a man looks when he is thinking of marriage. Our brother cares nothing for women. His mind runs upon rupees. Keep careful count, husband, of the crops, or there will be trouble when he returns. I am glad he is gone, for I have no wish to cook his meals.”

Chellum followed the road to the bridge. Early as it was, he met several of the villagers starting for their fields by the river. He spoke to them, telling each the same story—that he was going down to the coast to trade at one of the sea-port towns.

Instead of crossing the bridge, he took a path that led down the valley between the river and the mountains. It passed through the cultivated fields and groves, and skirted the edge of the forest, occasionally touching the river’s bank. After a couple of hours’ brisk marching he struck the path by which he and the Kurumba had walked the day before. He had left the terraced fields behind. On one side the hills rose with their tangled forests. On the other the jungle growth of the lower country merged into grass and swamp.

At the junction of the paths he stood for a few minutes listening to the voices of the jungle, the twitter of bird and scream of monkey that would betray the presence of man. Not a sound reached his ear to disturb him. The Kurumba distinctly stated that he had an appointment high up in the mountains. There was no reason to think that it was untrue, but not being of a truthful nature himself he naturally distrusted all others. Satisfied that so far he had the place to himself, he continued his journey and arrived at the river bank.

Here again he paused. The coracle was in its place, with the pole lying by its side. The boat was dry, showing that it had not been used that morning. His eye searched the banks on either side. Not a creature was to be seen. He squatted on his heels and hunched his shoulders till he looked like a sleepy fishing eagle gorged with a heavy meal of mahseer fish.

The silence of the river was greater and more complete than the silence of the forest. Far across the swampy grass the egret cried; and now and then a contented quack reached his ear as a wild duck flew clumsily from one pool to another.

No animal lingered by the water, or waded in the shallows to drink or to cool its feet. All living things save the man alone were fully conscious of the deadly enemy hidden under that rippling surface—and he should have known; but his mind was filled with other matters.

As he sat there he ran no danger. The servants of the river god were not in the habit of seeking their prey on land.

Little waves brushed up by a gust of the morning breeze broke with a tinkle of silver bubbles against the dry mud, and the grass replied with a whispering swish. Circles spread in rings on the water as the hidden fish or reptile rose to breathe the air. In places the eddies of the current swirled, indicating that the water was not stagnant. It flowed down its narrowed course like the gentle winds of summer. The inhabitants of the depths gambolled in it as the birds play in the breeze, allowing themselves to be carried down where it ran strong, and darting back to their feeding grounds by the backwaters.

Chellum’s eyes travelled carefully over swamp and dry mud flat, over meadow and grove lying between the river and the forest, in search of the well-known figure. He had no wish to be caught stealing a march on the Kurumba. Up to the present all had gone without a check. It had been much easier than he had dared to hope; but he must not rely too much on the amiability of the magician. At any moment offence might be given, and such curses pronounced as would blight his life and poison all his plans for prosperity.

From his close scrutiny of the land he turned his eye to the island. The little temple crowning the eminence stood out clearly against the sky. It had a peculiar fascination for him. Under the short, wedge-like dome was hidden the fortune of a Maharajah. It might be his for the taking. Who could prevent him from making a clean sweep of the hoard? Why should he trouble to peculate in a small way? Better take the lot whilst he was about it. Less than the whole would not satisfy his natural greed after having seen and handled it.

He got up to obtain a better view. Nothing moved but a careless butterfly lured across the water by the scent of some flower. The grey-brown spit of rock at the lower end of the island was bathed in the warm sunlight. A log of smaller proportions than that which was visible on the previous day lay half-way between the end of the point and the temple. He saw nothing in it to attract attention. His eye passed over it as it had passed over the scenery of mountain, valley and stream, and the butterfly with the inattention of preoccupation.

He was convinced that his isolation was complete, that it was impossible for any human being to approach within a mile without being detected. It was needless to delay any longer or waste further time by reconnoitring. The coracle was lifted from its anchorage and launched upon the water.

The boat was circular in shape, and fashioned of cane in the form of a flat-bottomed basin. Over the cane a leather covering was stretched to make it water-tight and capable of floating. It had neither rudder nor prow nor rowlocks. The cane skeleton frame maintained its rigidity against the pressure of the water; but in its interstices the thick leather hide yielded slightly to the weight of the foot.

Every West Coast man knows how to handle the river craft of his country, from the smallest coracle to the large houseboat of the backwater. Chellum punted his ferry-boat across without difficulty and landed at the same spot that had been chosen the day before. He took the coracle out of the water and left it on the rock with the pole. His sack was slung across his shoulder; it would be required to hold the loot; and he gripped his staff in his hand, his trusty staff that kept its secret and laid the death of its victim at the door of the leopard of the forest.

With long, springing strides, he went quickly to the temple, and his fingers sought the key in feverish impatience to get his task done now that he was fairly embarked upon it. The key was there. As he inserted it, recalling the directions given by the Kurumba, the log on the spit of land raised itself and took the form of a man. The figure, stooping low under cover of the rock, ran to the spot where the coracle rested. For a few seconds he bent over the boat and then as swiftly retraced his steps, slipping his knife back into his waist-belt as he ran. Once more to all appearances the stranded log lay in the sun.

The key was not easy to manage, but it yielded at last to a little manipulation. Throwing his weight on the door as the Kurumba had done, he opened it. Every limb was trembling in his excitement as he burst in, the brilliant tropical light entering with him and flooding the interior. A ray of the sun rested upon the image of the river god, illuminating its expressionless, bulging eyes, its low forehead, its thick lips parted over the long pointed teeth with which it was supposed to seize all that was offered in sacrifice. The idol was there, but where was the treasure upon which Chellum’s eyes had feasted only twenty-four hours ago?

Not a vestige of all that marvellous wealth remained!

Aghast, he stared at the rubbish at his feet—broken bits of rock, potsherds, rotten sticks, dead leaves, and the accumulation of the dust of years! He could not believe his senses. Surely he did not see aright! There, on the left, had stood the many columns built up of solid rupees to the height of ten or twelve inches, supporting each other by their own weight. Here had lain the heap of gold coins glittering in reflected yellow light. He thrust his hand into the heap and filled his palm with water-worn pebbles gathered from the river bed. Where was the necklace strung with jingling gold mohurs? He seized a piece of bamboo on which hung leaves, now dead and sear, that it had put forth in the jungle. Gone were bracelet and armlet, jewelled pendant and nose ring! Vanished were the hoards of money, the accumulation of uncut gems. Nothing remained but dust and decay, worthless stones and rubbish cast ashore by the flood.

With an exclamation of fierce anger he dashed the stones he held into the face of the grinning idol. He kicked aside the sticks and dead leaves in fury. In his wrath and disappointment he could have knocked down and clubbed the image that seemed to be smiling so maliciously at his discomfiture.

A sudden thought crossed his brain. The Kurumba, fearing lest the temptation should be too great, had been before him and had chosen another and more cunning hiding-place. With painful eagerness he searched every nook and cranny of that little room, feeling for hole and cleft, for loose stones that might conceal a cavity. High and low, floor, walls, roof, pedestal—even the image itself was examined for some secret spring that might reveal a hollow place. Beetles and spiders, disturbed from their dusty lairs, crawled hastily from his intruding fingers. His efforts met with no success. The treasure was gone, and he came slowly to the conclusion that it had been removed by its owner. As the conviction took possession of his mind, a furious anger against the man who had duped him grew and deepened as each effort to find the hoard failed. He must have his revenge, and it should be speedy! With this thought absorbing him, he issued from the door and sat down on the temple steps to ruminate on his next course of action.

His search had lasted for an hour. The sun was at its zenith. The morning breeze had died away, and where the ripples tinkled there was silence. The river lay like a broad still mirror except for the current in mid-stream. On the spit of land at the end of the island, the log remained immovable near a little semi-circular excrescence of rock that had been worn smooth by the action of the water.

At the foot of the platform was the sack that was to have been filled with the plunder, and by its side lay the staff armed with the deadly claws. The sight of the almost empty bag and his weapon added fuel to the fire that burned within the angry man. It would have gone hardly with the old father of the forest—unless he could have summoned aid by some occult means—had he appeared upon the scene just then. As he sat there, Chellum planned out his line of action. He would return to the mountains by the little-used paths they had followed together on the previous day, and lie in wait for the Kurumba. The village people had seen him depart for the coast. Even if the manner of death should be suspected, the crime would not be fastened on him. He must have his revenge, and it should be complete.

Lifting sack and staff, he went down quickly to the spot where the coracle lay, and launched it with the decision of a man who has set himself a task to do. He pushed the boat away from the island with his pole, and sent it whirling on the current. Before the middle of the stream was reached, he became conscious that his craft was leaking, and that he was standing in water. He glanced down and found to his consternation that the water was rising rapidly. It poured through a rent in the sewing of the skins where the cord had given way. As the boat became water-logged it responded more and more sluggishly to his frantic efforts to propel it with the pole. He stooped down to examine the rent, and attempted to push the sack into it; but the rush of the water was too great, and it was impossible to staunch the leak.

By this time the coracle was at the mercy of the stream, and was borne down the middle of the river. It was a matter of only a few seconds more when it would sink beneath him and plunge him into the water.

Chellum had no fear of being drowned. He glanced at the shore. Being an excellent swimmer, five minutes should see him safely ashore. He hastily secured the sack to his waist, and in another second the boat was submerged, and he was struggling in the water.

The stream was strong enough to sweep him down till he was level with the tongue of land at the end of the island. At this point his strokes began to tell, and he mastered the current. Did he or did he not see the object which he might have taken for a small log rise to the height of a man?

The cry of the waterbird floated over the river, the same penetrating cry that had accompanied the offerings to the river god. In answer to it a pair of stony eyes and protruding nostrils appeared on the surface for a second. The water swirled where they vanished as the huge reptile struck out in the direction of the swimmer.

The watcher on the island followed Chellum’s dark head with his eyes as he moved on the silvery river. Not a sound broke the stillness of the glorious noon-tide; not a groan marred the beauty of the scene.

The man conquered the current, and began to progress towards the shore. Suddenly he disappeared!

Nothing but a few bubbles marked the spot where he had been, and a ripple or two spread out in widening rings till they lost themselves on the mud flat that the swimmer should have reached easily had he not fallen a prey to the servant of the river demon. Gripped in the armed jaw of the muggar, the human leopard was held under water till his last drowning struggle ended, and he lay limp and motionless between the teeth of the crocodile.

Down in the depths of the river, under some submerged rock, the muggar scoops for himself a larder, where he hides his catch as a dog hides his bones in the garden bed.

The man standing on the island was satisfied that the undertaker would do his work thoroughly. No trace would be left of his deed. The secret would be kept faithfully. Then the man of magic set about the completion of his own task, which was the recovery of the coracle and the sewing up of the stitches that he had severed with his knife while Chellum was searching for the lost treasure. He lifted the object that looked like a water-worn excrescence of the rock, turned it over, and set it afloat upon the stream.

A day or two later, Hillary met the old man not far from Doorgapet, whither he had come with the express purpose of speaking to the Inspector; but this fact he kept to himself.

“Salaam! wise one of the forest! I have not seen you for the last two or three days.”

“The eyes of the Englishman do not distinguish all that the forest contains.”

“Seen any leopards lately?”

“A cunning and dangerous beast met with its death in crossing the river a few days ago,” remarked the Kurumba in a dull, heavy tone.

“Drowned?”

“Taken by a muggar.”

“How do you know, wise one?”

“These eyes saw it swimming. It was on the face of the water; a moment later there was nothing to be seen. I watched, but the leopard did not appear again.”

“What were you doing by the river?”

“I made an offering to the river god and did pujah. On my way back I picked up this staff. Take it, Excellency; but first learn its secret.”

He opened the knob and exposed the four deadly claws. The revelation was greeted with an exclamation of surprise.

“Who was the owner of this?”

“I can’t say. It is like one that Chellum carried.”

“Where is the man? Is he still in the village?”

“The people tell me that he left for the coast two days ago. He parted with his brother and set out, carrying his bundle of clothes. By this time he is in Goa.”

“Then this cannot belong to him.”

“Yet he bought the four claws from me—and a short time after the purchase his wife died through being mauled by a leopard. When Chellum walked in the forest behind your honour he carried a staff of this pattern.”

“I must have him arrested,” said Hillary, more to himself than to his companion.

“If your honour can find him.”

“We shall find him all right. He can’t have got very far away,” replied the Inspector, confidently.

The Kurumba did not reply. He handed the staff to the Englishman in silence and turned away. It was added to a strange collection of articles connected with the cases that came under Hillary’s management, and may be seen in his bungalow.

The owner of the staff was never found, and for once in his life the Inspector failed in his search for a criminal, a fact that always puzzled him more than a little, whenever he thought it over.

Chapter XIV

The Monkey Demon

The Paddybird was returning to the camp. He carried his gun and a game bag. The latter was well filled with pigeon, teal and snipe. He had spent the day “shooting master’s grub,” as he called it, whilst Benacre himself had been away since early dawn on an official visit to one of the police stations in his district.

Behind the spare, long-legged figure of the cook walked Varadia. The constable had been down the valley to the railway station to fetch a parcel for his master, and had encountered the Paddybird accidentally. Both men were making their way towards the Assistant Superintendent’s camp, situated on a small hill in the valley higher up. Just below the hill the road passed over the river by a bridge. On the other side of the bridge clustered the houses of the village of Ellapuram; immediately beyond the village rose the slopes of the mountain mass that culminated in the Doorga’s Peak.

There was plenty of room to walk abreast on the metalled road they were pursuing; but, after the manner of the oriental, Varadia preferred to keep a pace behind his superior.

“It was strange to see the monkeys playing under the trees in the monkey valley. I sat on a rock and watched them,” remarked the constable.

“What tricks were they at?” asked the cook, idly.

“They chased each other among the boulders with plenty of talking and tail-curling.”

“Just the usual monkey games,” said the Paddybird, indifferently. “If I had been there I would have shot one for your curry, brother.”

The constable wagged his head in approval.

“They are good eating, but the master will not touch them?”

The other laughed as he replied—

“Not if he knows that it is monkey’s flesh; but there have been times—he must not starve. And who can tell curried monkey from curried hare? ‘It was too good a hare to curry,’ said master, when he had dined off it with nothing but gingerbread biscuits to follow. ‘What can do, sar?’ I said. ‘No cabbage, no potatoes, no fruit, no butter, no cheese left, therefore must curry. Next time I roasting!’ Master slept well that night, for the beast was young and tender. Also he gave no trouble over the price charged in the bazaar book for the powder and shot I used.”

The constable’s thoughts had gone back to the live monkeys he had seen on his journey. He was not interested in the Paddybird’s dealings with the master.

“They were doing things that were not common monkey tricks to-day. There was one that was strange in his behaviour. I never saw a monkey do the like.”

The Paddybird stopped to light a strong Indian cigar. Over the flickering match he looked at the police peon.

“Was it near the devil tree?”

“It was no great way off.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Up the valley runs a game track to the foot of the camp hill. It is steep and rough climbing, but it saves three miles. I had thoughts of returning that way; but when I saw the monkey I came back to the road where I met you.”

“In what way did the beast differ from the others?” asked the Paddybird, now deeply interested.

“It seemed to be the master of the monkeys, and led them this way and that. Then it stood still and held up its fore-foot as a man lifts his hand when he would speak. They were obedient and ceased their running in a moment to listen to what it had to say.”

“Could you catch its meaning?” asked the cook, well aware that his jungle-reared companion claimed to understand the language of birds and beasts.

“I was too far off. When it had finished speaking it took up a stick as I hold my staff, so, and moved it to right and left like this.”

The Paddybird watched Varadia as he swayed his staff after the manner of a conductor of a band.

“That was no monkey,” remarked the cook, resuming his walk.

“Therefore I took the longer way,” said Varadia simply, as he once more dropped behind.

“Was there anything else strange?”

“Once the beast seated itself high up on a ledge of rock and holding the stick as if it were a vina, it struck strings that I could not see, but which by its power of magic were doubtless there. More than that,” he continued with increasing excitement, “it wagged its head thus, and seemed to sing. Who has ever heard of a beast that can sing?”

The Paddybird stopped once more, and turning, regarded his companion in a silence that was eloquent. Then, swinging round, he resumed his long stride, and said—

“It was no monkey; it could be nothing else but a devil.”

The constable grunted his assent as he followed close at the cook’s heels. The road wound up the valley by a gentle gradient towards the bridge and the village where Varadia lived. A sound of hoofs behind them caused the pedestrians to step aside. An Englishman pulled up and enquired where the camp of the Assistant Superintendent was. The Paddybird directed him, and he rode on.

“Now I must hurry. The gentleman will dine and sleep in camp with our master, for it is too late to return to-night. It is fortunate that my bag is so well filled. The master will not be put to shame over the dinner.”

The Paddybird, with the instinct of the faithful Hindu servant who makes his master’s interests his own, was busy already in his mind over the menu. He could see his way to the soup, the entree, or si’dish as he called it, the joint and game with pudding to follow, It was the fish that troubled him, and he cudgelled his brains to devise some cunning method by which he could serve up tinned herrings to look and taste like fresh sea fish. Varadia broke his train of thought.

“It will be necessary to do pujah to the devil. Doubtless it is the spirit of the tree that stands in the centre of the valley.”

“That is your business,” replied the Paddybird, with decision. “I am a Christian, and my priest does not allow me to take part in any heathen ceremonies. There is no reason, however, why I should not give you butter and sugar. I have occasion to go up that valley sometimes for pigeon, and it would be as well to keep the devil in good humour. He might frighten away the birds if he were angered.”

“Or get into your gun and cause it to miss the birds,” said Varadia, as he quickened his pace to keep up with the long legs of the other.

The suggestion disturbed the cook more than a little, and he repeated his offer, commissioning the constable to make it known to the villagers.

As Captain Ormesby rode into the camp he met Benacre at the entrance of his tent. The latter had just come in from his tour of inspection. He welcomed his visitor warmly.

“Glad you got over that nasty fall. You’ll stay and dine and sleep, Ormesby,” he said, well pleased at the thought of having a companion.

After dinner Ormesby related his story, and the object of his visit. He required the assistance of the police to find a man who was missing. Corporal Ward, of Ormesby’s company, stationed at Calicut on the West Coast, had disappeared. He with a bosom friend, Corporal Haines, had taken a few days’ leave and gone on a shooting excursion. At the end of the time Haines returned to duty, but Ward was reported absent.

“The two men were chums,” continued Captain Ormesby. “Ward was a queer chap in his way, a good soldier, but his spare moments were devoted to various pursuits in which he fancied himself proficient. The collection of butterflies was one of them.”

“Was he quick tempered?” asked Benacre.

“Not at all. Although he was not what you might call a sociable fellow he got on well with everybody and was liked. He was too busy to quarrel. Haines is also of a peaceful disposition.”

“Is there a woman mixed up in it?”

“Well, yes; and it is through her instigation that I’ve arrested Haines.”

“Who is she?”

“A Miss Irene Fernandez, the daughter of a dark-complexioned apothecary. It seems that the two men admired her, and she accepted the attentions of both with favour. A month ago, at a ball given by the men of the detachment, Miss Fernandez appeared wearing two gold brooches; on one was engraved the word, ‘Love’; on the other, ‘Darling’. Haines was the giver of ‘Love’; Ward of ‘Darling’. Naturally there was a row between the rivals, and Haines threatened to ‘do’ for Ward. A day or two after, Haines made it up with Ward and proposed an expedition into the jungle, one to shoot, the other to catch butterflies. They took the train and came up into this district, leaving the railway some distance down the valley.”

“Had they any native with them?”

“They hired a country cart and a couple of bullocks, with a man to drive. He undertook to buy their supplies and to cook for them under Haines’ superintendence. At night they slept inside the cart. The day was spent in the jungle and in working their way by easy stages up the valley. About seven miles below this place an extraordinary thing happened. One afternoon, according to Haines’ account, they went into the jungle as usual, Haines carrying his gun and Ward his green butterfly net. A heavy shower came on. They took shelter under a tree. In the middle of the storm a strange figure appeared. He must have been one of those jungle ascetics one sees on the road now and then.”

Benacre nodded his head and said—

“I know them; magicians by birth as well as education. They belong to the Kurumba tribe. You may meet them on the Coimbatore side of the Ghats as well as the Malabar side.”

“Yes; that’s the kind. I had a turn up with one of them myself, if you remember, when I had my accident. This man didn’t approve of their presence in the ravine, and made signs to them to go.”

“Probably he feared that they might shoot the monkeys, which he considers are under his protection.”

“As it was pouring cats and dogs, they refused to move, and I gather that there was a bit of a row. The old wizard objected to the green butterfly net. We have had two or three cases lately of men getting into rows with natives, and Haines was very reticent as to what really took place. Any way, he assured me that they made it up with the native and gave him a rupee. The man was apparently satisfied, so much so that he sat beside them under cover of the tree. To amuse them he lighted a small oil lamp that he carried with him, and caused the flame to dance ‘just like a little goblin,’ said Haines. In the middle of this performance, Haines, who had Ward between him and the jungle man, declares positively that he fell asleep. When he awoke he found himself in the road near the cart. The cartman was busy making coffee for their supper, and the sun was just setting. From that time to this he has never set eyes on Ward.”

“What does the cartman say about it?”

“He sticks to it that Haines never went into the jungle at all that afternoon, but lay down directly after his midday meal and fell asleep.”

“And what about Ward?”

“He is willing to admit that Ward took his butterfly net and strolled into the forest. There was a cloud on the hill, but no rain where the cart stood.”

“What did Haines do about searching for Ward?”

“Nothing that evening. All the next day he stayed in the same spot and made frequent excursions into the jungle, firing his gun as a signal; but he could find no trace of his chum anywhere. He was obliged to return as his leave came to an end.”

“The story of the cartman does not tally with Haines’ story,” remarked Benacre.

“It did at first. Haines evidently bought the man over to support his first statements. It was only after much questioning and beating about the bush that Haines admitted that he went into the jungle. As the cartman says, he slept after lunch, but it was only for a short time. About three o’clock the man awoke him and asked him to go and shoot something, as they had nothing for breakfast for the following morning. He took his gun, caught up Ward, and they wandered into a snug little ravine that was full of monkeys. When the shower came on they took refuge under the tree.”

“Why did Haines suppress that part of the story in the first instance?”

“He was afraid of admitting that they had had a row with the native. We have been dropping rather heavily on our men lately, and I suppose he feared that there might be trouble, even though they had done their best to square the fellow.”

Benacre smoked in silence for some minutes, and then asked—

“What is the impression in the regiment?”

“At first no one would believe that Haines could do bodily harm to any one; but Miss Fernandez is very bitter against him. She vows that Ward was the man of her choice, and that she only accepted and wore Haines’ gift to make Ward jealous. She hints that Corporal Haines purposely made up the quarrel that he might decoy his rival away into the jungle and shoot him. We have got Haines under arrest, and the girl is enjoying a notoriety that makes her the most important person at this moment among the Eurasian community of the station. She has put on mourning, and is telling everybody that she has seen her lover in a vision lying in the jungle shot through the heart. I shall be very glad for Haines’ sake if you can solve the mystery and find Ward dead or alive. I cannot believe that there has been foul play.”

“I will do my best, but it is extremely difficult to discover any one who has been lost for some days in these vast forests of the Western Ghats. The probability is that the man wandered after butterflies and lost his bearings. He may have dropped down from weakness and starvation in some remote spot where no human being is ever likely to set foot again. The jackals and a chance hyena will make short work of him, poor fellow, after he is dead. By-the-bye, did either of the men drink?”

“No, I don’t think they did. It was said that Haines had had a glass too much when he quarrelled with Ward on the night of the dance,” Ormesby replied.

“It is possible then that the men were drinking on their expedition. It would certainly account for the hiatus in Haines’ memory which he calls sleep.”

“I questioned the cartman on the subject. He vows that they took nothing but coffee.”

“If there was any drinking going on we may be sure that he had his share; the liquor would be arrack and cheap enough. In that case he would screen them as well as himself.”

Chapter XV

Propitiation

Early the next morning at dawn, Varadia’s young wife warmed some coffee for her husband over a charcoal fire. He was not due at the police station till nine o’clock; nevertheless he drank the hot sweet liquid hastily. He wound his loin-cloth tightly round his waist and wrapped a thin blanket over his shoulders. Taking up his staff he started for the magician’s cave before the village was awake, charged with a message from the headman.

The Kurumba was lying on his string cot apparently asleep. An oil lamp glimmered in the darkness of the recess and showed the motionless figure covered closely from head to foot in a sheet. Varadia stood at the entrance and coughed gently. The magician sat up, shaking the folds of the sheet from his face. As his eyes fell upon the form of his visitor, he said—

“What is it, my son? What do you seek?”

“The headman has sent me to tell the swami what I saw with my own eyes yesterday, as I returned from the fire-carriage station to the camp.”

“Tell your story and I will listen.”

“Thinking that I would come back by a short way through the hills, I passed into the valley where the monkeys live. I saw a strange sight. A grey devil played with the monkeys.”

The old man rose from his seat on the cot and came to the entrance of the cave. He pushed aside the hanging tendrils of the creeper that formed a curtain to his door, and issued into the cold, pale light of the morning. His eyes glistened with a suddenly aroused interest as Varadia described the actions of the monkey.

“We spoke of it last evening in the village,” continued the constable, “and the villagers say that it must have been a devil. It is necessary to do pujah, or there will be stone-throwing and house-burning. The people are ready to make offerings if the father of the forest will do the pujah.”

“They are mistaken,” cried the Kurumba, with decision. “It was no devil, but a young monkey, more playful than the rest.”

He turned back into the cave as though the answer was final and the interview at an end. Varadia did not stir. He waited in silence for a few minutes, not daring to dispute the statement made by the wise man of the woods, but all the same, unconvinced. Had he not seen the devil with his own eyes? Presently he spoke again.

“Swami, it is the wish of the whole village that pujah should be done. If it is deemed too much trouble for the father of the forest to perform it, there is the pujari of the temple by the river——”

In an instant the Kurumba was before him, his eyes sparkling with something suspiciously like anger. Varadia trembled and placed his hands together, palm to palm, in humble submission.

“That man!” cried the magician, with contempt. “What does he know of the spirits of the jungle? Let him attend to the swami of the temple!”

“There is no other who can help us but him, if the wise one of the cave refuse. Butter, honey, camphor, and a fine white cock are ready. Your honour has only to speak.”

The eyes of the Kurumba softened as the items of the offering were mentioned by the crafty constable. He grunted in a mollified fashion and said—

“Since the headman asks this favour I will grant it. To-morrow at sunset I will come. For the sake of the timid people will I do this; but the dweller in the cave warns them that if there is a devil, it is strong. Perhaps, instead of departing it may refuse their offerings and advance to slay them.”

“Ah bah! I did well to return to the road,” muttered Varadia. “Is the devil so very strong, father?” he asked, his knees shaking under him.

“A spirit that can command even monkeys must be strong indeed!”

With this speech the Kurumba once more returned to the mysterious shadows of the cave. Varadia, having obtained his answer for the villagers, retraced his steps. Wild beasts had no terrors for him; but devils great and small he dreaded with the inherent instinct of a descendant of a long line of devil-worshippers. As he passed through the village a little later, on his way to the police station, he was stopped frequently by anxious enquirers. Many were the promises made of contributions towards the offering.

Captain Ormesby departed that morning, and Benacre promised to do his best to find the missing corporal, although he held out little hope of success. A messenger was sent to Doorgapet to summon Inspector Hillary, he having a greater knowledge of the district than any other man, except, perhaps, Varadia. It was just possible that he, with the assistance of the constable, might do something to elucidate the mystery of Ward’s disappearance.

Hillary arrived late that same evening. He walked over from Doorgapet. On his way to the camp he lingered in the village bazaar, chatting with the villagers as they returned from their fields. The chief topic of conversation was the devil seen by the village constable. It had already grown to gigantic proportions. With a stick it not only beat time to an imaginary band, but also beat its audience for want of appreciation of the music. Its song was vouched for by some of the men, even though Varadia had only seen the action that accompanied it. Three men coming home by moonlight two days before declared positively that they had heard the demon howling among the rocks.

Hillary was always careful not to smile at the credulity of the natives. It was his custom to listen seriously to the wildest tales and to the most extravagant statements. This was one of the means by which “he who came and went like the rain” unravelled bit by bit some of the mysteries of those strange Western hill-tribes among whom his lot was cast.

“So you do pujah to the swami to-morrow?”

“As the sun sets we make our offerings, and the Kurumba will repeat muntrums.”

“Where will this be done?”

“Near the spot where the monkeys have their nests among the rocks.”

“See that it is well done, for we do not want devils among us. They bring too much trouble,” said Hillary, as he continued his way to the police station.

He was warmly welcomed by Benacre, with whom he was a favourite. There was an hour to spare before dinner, and during that time the Assistant Superintendent related the story of the corporal’s disappearance to his subordinate.

“You have heard nothing of the missing man on your side, I suppose?” said Benacre.

“I am not likely to hear of him over there, sir. He is on this side of the river if he is still in this neighbourhood.”

After supper Hillary walked round to the kitchen tent and enquired for the Paddybird. The cook left his assistant, the Poochee, to finish the washing-up, and joined the Inspector, who told him of the missing Englishman and asked if in any of his shooting expeditions he had seen tracks.

“The man seems to have been lost about seven miles down the valley.”

“I have not been as far as that, sir,” replied the Paddybird, filled with pride at being thus consulted. “My search for grub for master’s table does not require distant peregrinations. My quarries are small games that I find near the camp. I have seen nothing near here.”

After further questioning, which elicited no information that was of any use, Hillary spoke of the subject that was agitating the village.

“I am told that Varadia saw a devil yesterday.”

“That was so, sir. I met him on the way home, and he was full of it. A devil in the shape of a monkey played high jinks with the beasts, but he was not the corporal. He had a tail six feet long, and was covered with hair. He put on a magnificent air, and made himself masterful and bumptious with much pomp. The rest of the monkeys were as dirt before his footsteps. Varadia was sure that he was a devil and no monkey.”

“What do you think yourself?”

The Paddybird put on his wisest look, which impressed his understudy, the Poochee, more than a little. The cleansing of saucepans was not so absorbing that the youth had no eye nor ear for what was passing.

“It is difficult to say, sir. If I had him here, and found that he would skin and cook with onions like a hare or fowl, I should say that he was monkey; but if he stank in the pot and turned to smoke, then I should say that he was a devil. Unless I held him in my hands, I could not say for certain what he was. It is well in these matters to be ‘right-o,’ as my old master used to say; so the villagers have decided to do pujah tomorrow. Though I am a Christian, I give butter and sugar to help the people, as they are poor.”

The Paddybird assumed an expression of virtuous generosity that was sublime. He would have the Inspector believe that his action was due entirely to philanthropy, and had nothing to do with any personal fear on his part. Hillary expressed his approval of his gift. Before he returned to the tent, he added a few words of appreciation concerning the excellent meal served up that evening, at which the cook glowed with pride.

The next day was spent by the Inspector in the jungle. His destination was the spot where the monkeys had been seen. He was a good walker, and it did not take him long to reach the place. A rough path branched off from the road following the banks of a mountain stream in its many windings; and he found himself in a beautiful ravine that was like a palm-house run riot. Tropical forest trees rose thirty and forty feet on stems that were as straight as the columns of a temple. Their noble crowns of foliage glistened with reflected light in the clear morning air. Under the trees flowering shrubs spread their more tender leaves and blossoms. Tree and shrub were linked together by festoons of creeper; and everywhere vegetation was of luxuriant growth. Bright plumaged birds played among the branches, and butterflies soared from the terrestrial orchid in its bed of fern and moss to the scented blossom on the branch above.

Hillary pursued his way up the valley at a leisurely pace, moving with as little noise as possible. Frequently he stopped to listen, standing by one of the huge trunks as motionless as the tree itself. His eye scanned the surface of the ground for track of footsteps. Once or twice he bent low over a spot where the delicate fronds of the fern had been pressed down or pushed aside. He came to the conclusion that it was only the imprint of a monkey’s paw, and nothing else. Where the jungle fell back and the forest trees were fewer, he searched the blue sky. No bird of prey wheeling and circling over a horrible feast was visible—the sight that he dreaded most to see.

Pushing through a tangle of lianes, he stepped out into an open space walled in on one side by rock and on the other by forest. The rock was broken up into ridges and clefts. It was among these that the monkey folk had their nests. As soon as the sun had mounted over the hill its rays penetrated into the crannies, bringing the warmth beloved by the hairy little people. Already the golden light was touching the rock.

Hillary moved cautiously to a boulder and sat down to make his observations. Several grey figures of the same colour as the stone were perched upon a ledge some twenty feet high. Their long tails hung down limp and straight, and there was no activity among them. Presently one of them caught sight of the intruder and began to jibber and chatter. The noise brought out a dozen or more from their various hiding-places, and these added their vociferations to the first notes of alarm. He rose and advanced a step or two. The excitement increased, and he was astonished to see the number of animals moving upon the rock. He looked in vain for a figure that might seem like a devil to the heated imagination of a native; there was not a single individual answering to the description given by Varadia. Some of the young ones began to swing themselves about and leap from ledge to ledge. Others played a rough-and-tumble game of follow-my-leader; but there was none that took up a masterful attitude such as the Paddybird had described. Not a sign of any creature, monkey or otherwise, suggested the lost corporal.

The Inspector remained seated for some time. He had had a long walk and was glad to rest before pursuing his search further down. Presently he bethought himself of the packet of sandwiches provided by the attentive Paddybird. Could it be possible that an Englishman might be dying of starvation within a few miles of the spot where he sat eating food that he could very well have done without? The thought was not pleasant. With his police whistle he blew a long, shrill blast. The excitement among the monkeys caused by his appearance had partially subsided, though they still had him under observation. The noise startled them, and they scampered this way and that, uttering cries of alarm.

After an interval he blew a second blast that echoed round the rocks and drove the monkeys nearly mad with terror and anger. Suddenly a large monkey bounded from the ledge, dropped down the face of the rock, and reached the ground level with the spot where Hillary stood. It was quickly followed by several others. They grouped themselves round their leader and uttered threatening cries.

So this was the devil that led the rest! There was no doubt in Hillary’s mind as to its identity. It was a fierce old male with long, yellow teeth and loose mangey skin, an unpleasant customer to deal with at close quarters if thoroughly irritated.

Hillary always carried a stick, a stout staff, longer than the usual walking stick of civilization. It was armed with an iron spike at the end to assist in climbing. The staff might serve as a weapon of defence if he were attacked by a single animal; but it would be of little use in protecting him from those numerous long, hairy arms if they reached out together to scratch and tear. On the whole, perhaps it would be better to retire. He turned to walk away. As he did so the large monkey sprang forward menacingly. He stopped instantly, and the animal stopped. Again he made as though he would leave the place, and the beast followed him, lessening the distance between them with every bound. Hillary once more faced the monkey, and took a few steps towards it.

“Get out, you brute!” he repeated, as he might have spoken to an ill-conditioned dog.

He drew from his pocket a small mirror, and flashed the reflected light of the sun upon the monkeys. The dancing point of light dazzled and perplexed them; their leader raised itself on its hind-legs and gazed at him with fast-evaporating courage. With a snarl half of fear and half of defiance, it sank upon its forelegs and ambled away. The rest of the monkeys slunk off in similar fashion and scaled the rock to regain the ledge where they could bask in the sun. Hillary laughed as he put the glass in his pocket.

“Thus we deal with these Indian devils,” he said to himself.

He turned once more to retrace his steps and reach the road, when he found himself face to face with the Kurumba. The brown shining eyes of the jungle man were lifted to his in keen enquiry.

“Your honour called the monkeys down with the whistle, and having spoken with them commanded them to depart?”

“Perhaps,” replied Hillary with a smile.

“Is your honour a god that he can talk with wild beasts and make them obey him?”

“One need not be a god to control a beast.”

“What is it your honour wishes to learn from the monkeys?” asked the Kurumba, with a curiosity that he could not hide.

“I would know where the Englishman who is lost may be found.”

“And what said the monkeys?”

“That I should enquire of the father of the forest,” replied Hillary at a venture. “There is reason why this man should be brought back to his people in safety.”

“He is not a Government servant,” said the Kurumba, with a quickened snapping of the eyelids which did not escape the observant Inspector.

“No, he is more than that; he is a servant of the great white Emperor who governs this land. I speak a true word. These fighting men wear the dress of the Emperor. They stand about him in greater numbers than the peons round the Viceroy in Calcutta. They guard his person and his house; and he loves them because of their bravery and their loyalty. There is trouble when one of them is lost. Has the wise one of the cave seen anything of the servant of the Emperor who is said to be lost in the forest?”

“I know nothing,” replied the Kurumba, his eyes becoming dim and his interest extinguished.

This was the only answer forthcoming, and Hillary; finding that he could get no more out of the man, left him.

The sun was dropping towards the western horizon when the procession from the village arrived at the point where the path diverged towards the valley of the monkeys. The Kurumba met the villagers on the road, and was duly garlanded and presented with an offering for himself. The offerings for the swami were contained in baskets and pots carried by three men, who placed themselves immediately behind the magician as soon as he joined the procession.

The party filed singly through the jungle along the narrow path. At a signal from the Kurumba the tomtom was silenced, and they proceeded with as little noise as possible. They reached the open glade where Hillary had sat at noonday. The Kurumba glanced round for the Inspector, but could detect no sign of his presence.

The valley was bathed in warm sunshine. Swarms of monkeys played about the rocks, jabbering among themselves with restless movements, in which they seemed all arms, legs and tails.

The party halted, and the Kurumba occupied a position under a tree that stood singly in the centre of the glade. In this tree, he said, the devil had taken up a temporary residence. There was a small boulder half buried in the fern near the stem. He directed one of the bearers of the gifts to clear away the vegetation close to the stone. The men made a fire and warmed a pot of butter on it.

The monkeys were full of curiosity at this second intrusion, and some of them sat on the ledge watching every movement of the men. Others continued their games with unconcern. The peace and quiet of the place was not disturbed by any ear-piercing sound such as Hillary had made with his whistle; therefore their hostility was not aroused.

Suddenly a small monkey seized a stick and began to wave it over its head as Varadia had described. There was a subdued chorus of exclamations from the assembly; but their fears were allayed as another and a larger animal snatched the stick away and imitated the action. In the bright sunlight it was easy to distinguish that they were nothing but monkeys. The thought crossed the minds of many, however, that the beasts had learned the trick from none other but the devil who controlled them.

The Kurumba repeated his muntrums and poured the warm oiled butter upon the stone. The cock was killed and its head placed with the fruit and sugar which had been laid out. A garland of flowers was hung upon the greasy boulder, and the worshippers arranged themselves into a semi-circle facing the wall of rock, being careful to keep the Kurumba between themselves and the monkeys. During the pujah the eyes of the company were directed more frequently towards the animals than to the ritual, which was familiar enough to all. Where was the strange creature seen by Varadia? Would he show himself and receive the offerings amiably? What if he appeared with angry mien and threats to destroy them? Some turned a backward glance to the path by which they had come to see that the way of retreat was open. Others looked anxiously at the Kurumba, wondering if he would be strong enough to stand between them and the malignant spirit at the critical moment.

The ceremony was ended, and the pujari directed one of his assistants to place the body of the fowl in the basket and then to cast the fruit and the sugar to the monkeys. The man obeyed his order. He advanced some steps towards the rock and threw the plantains and oranges at its foot. The monkeys sprang down in a body, and there was a scramble for the good things.

Suddenly a strange grey figure, tailless and upright, issued from the jungle at the base of the rock and hurled itself forward to secure a share of the fruit. A cry went up from the company as they thought they recognized one of the most malignant of their Malabar devils. With howls of terror they fled to a man, never stopping to look back. They tumbled over each other in their haste to reach the road up which they could fly with greater speed. They were convinced that the evil one was at their heels ready to seize them and break every bone in their bodies. The Kurumba alone of all the party stood firm, showing no sign of fear. He called to the devil, and ordered him to retire; but the creature was too busy satisfying his hunger to see or hear the wizard of the jungle.

From the tangled undergrowth of wild ginger and fern there crept out a man with a gun. His hand trembled, but his brave heart did not fail him. He was determined to kill this devil if powder and shot—blessed by many prayers to the saints—would do it. Raising his weapon, he levelled it at the crouching figure that was sharing the monkeys’ feast. As his finger pressed the trigger, the barrel was struck upwards, and the voice of the Inspector cried in his ear—

“Stop! Hold your hand! That is no devil! It is a man!”

“Swami!” cried the Paddybird as the gun went off, peppering the rock with shot.

The monkeys fled helter-skelter, with even greater rapidity than the congregation; but the grey figure merely stood up and turned towards the spot whence the noise had come. A white, haggard face was revealed, a face that was covered with a beard of a week’s growth. A trembling hand was passed over the eyes as of one awaking from a horrible dream, and a voice asked—

“Is that you, Haines?”

The Kurumba moved forward with an imperious gesture, and pointed with uplifted finger to the jungle, commanding him to return; but the hypnotic spell that he had wrought with his devilment as he sat by the side of the two men was broken—broken for ever by the noise of the Paddybird’s gun.

Corporal Ward had returned, a sorry sight with his stained garments and unwashed, unshaven face; but he was himself again.

The Kurumba stood in sullen silence as Hillary went up to him and said sternly—

“This is not well done, father of the forest.”

“It was but just punishment,” replied the Kurumba, defiant, yet eager to justify himself. “He would have harmed the people of the forest, he and his friend. The one had a gun, but this man carried a green bag tied to a stick in which he caught the creatures of the jungle. With it he would have swept the young monkeys from the arms of their mothers. Therefore did I compel him, as being the more dangerous, to stay with the monkey folk and be as one of them, feeding and drinking with them, singing to them, and making as though he played his string music.”

“Trouble will fall upon you if this is known. There will come an order to me from the Government to drive away the father of the forest to another district, and to close the mouth of his cave. What can I do? The order must be obeyed. Therefore this thing must not be known. How much will he remember?”

“Nothing, if your honour would have it so.”

“I would certainly have it so if we would all live in peace.”

Hillary turned to the Paddybird and remarked in English—

“It will be as well, also, to say nothing of your shot.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the cook, eagerly, in the same language. “If your honour had not come in the very nick of the hour I should have cooked a goose for him; and then I should have been, put in quod as a manslaughterer for many months; and my master made sick with the bad cooking of another man.”

Hillary went up to Ward and laid a hand upon his shoulder.

“You have been down with fever in the forest, corporal. The people of the jungle have cared for you to the best of their ability; but they are ignorant folk. You are well again now, thank God! Let us get back to camp by the shortest way as quickly as we can. You will be glad to have some dinner.”

The following day Corporal Ward reported himself at head-quarters, at the same time presenting a note from Benacre to say that, owing to a sudden attack of fever in which he had lost consciousness, he had been unable to return to duty before.

Haines and Ward walked out together that evening in the direction of the apothecary’s bungalow. Miss Irene was in the verandah in a flutter of excitement, ready to give her lover a warm welcome. Her black ribbons were replaced by bright cherry-coloured bows, in which the gold “Darling” shone conspicuously. The two men chatted as they moved along, their eyes directed anywhere but upon the verandah. Slowly they passed, blind to signal, deaf to shrill call. They retraced their steps with even greater deliberation, strolling back past the bungalow, and Irene knew that she was for ever wiped out of their list of acquaintances and friends. She watched their retreating figures and saw them stop at a bungalow a little further down the road where her rival, Miss Mildred White, lived—often called by admirers who wished to flatter, “the white Miss Mildred.” She was distinctly fairer by three shades than Irene.

When the sun had set and the landscape was bathed in moonlight, the tinkling sound of Ward’s banjo, followed by the hearty laugh of Haines, was wafted from the White’s bungalow to the ears of Miss Fernandez. With tears of rage and disappointment she flung “Darling” to the ayah and “Love” after it, and bade her go at once to the house of Overseer De Silva and tell his son Charlie de Silva, whom she had flouted for the greater attractions of the red coats, that she was at home and would be glad if he would come in to supper.

Chapter XVI

The Hindu Tracker

When a native makes up his mind to accomplish a thing, he usually finds the means to do it. Ramayan, the tracker, was piqued. His self-esteem was badly hurt. Just as he was congratulating himself that he had run his quarry to earth, and was already anticipating the honour and glory and consequent promotion that would be his reward, failure overwhelmed him. Through the uncanny influence of the Kurumba who lived in the cave under Doorga’s Peak the murderer escaped, even though the Assistant Superintendent and the Inspector were on the spot assisting in his capture.

The tracker was convinced that by some strange trick the Kurumba blinded them to realities and played upon their imaginations. In his opinion the jungle people were beneath contempt and little better than monkeys. He was disinclined, therefore, to admit that any occult power had been brought into play. Possibly drugs had been used in the fire before the cave, and the fumes had affected their eyesight, distorting vision and causing those present to see things as they were not, It was not, however, with the ways and means employed that he troubled himself; it was with the person who had been instrumental in foiling the Assistant Superintendent and the rest of the party. The tracker attributed his failure entirely to the Kurumba; and his anger against him was deep. He determined to be revenged on the old man one day. He was unable to give his attention to any private matter as long as the criminal remained at large. He therefore devoted himself entirely to the chase, promising himself that he would have his revenge later on.

He followed the criminal through the passes of the Western Ghats, and traced him down to the sea-coast to a small port. There the murderer took ship for Colombo. Ramayan disguised himself as a pearl diver and passed over to Ceylon. He learned that a man answering to the description of the fugitive had arrived and gone up-country into the planting districts as an ascetic, professing to work wonders through his extreme sanctity. It was a difficult task pursuing him among the estates, but he persevered in his search. Dropping the character of the pearl diver as soon as he went inland, he adopted the dress of a hawker and moneylender. In that capacity he professed to be hunting up his creditors and collecting debts.

He came upon his man quite by accident. The fugitive believed that he had completely thrown off the scent when he crossed from the Peninsula to the Island, and that he was comparatively safe. All he required to do now was to earn his living, and this he found easy enough among the credulous coolies on the tea estates in his present rôle.

Ramayan, dressed in the correct costume of a Bombay “tambee,” or hawker, was plodding along the cart-road through a bazaar, his box of wares carried on the head of his companion, the constable, who now figured as a coolie. The sun had set, and the brief twilight was fast merging into darkness, when a voice from the roadside demanded alms. One piercing glance, swift and short, a slight start that was imperceptible in the darkness, and the tambee continued his way, unheeding the appeal for charity that was thrown after his retreating form.

It was not until nearly midnight that the arrest was made. The help of the local police was enlisted, and there was no Kurumba this time to weave spells and hoodwink the constables and their superior officer. The man was easily taken, and on the following day he was conducted to Colombo and deported to the mainland. He was charged with the murder of the child—who had undoubtedly been killed as a human sacrifice—and committed for trial.

A day or two later an order reached Benacre that he was to arrest the Kurumba on a charge of having been accessory to the deed before it was committed, and of aiding the murderer to escape.

The Assistant Superintendent had left Ellapuram for a spot further down the valley, not far from the railway.

It was his last camp, and in another week he hoped to get back to his head-quarters; for the real monsoon could not be far off.

The order for the arrest of the Kurumba was not altogether to Benacre’s mind. He knew the old man as a harmless individual, against whom nothing was recorded worse than the weaving of spells for the villagers of Ellapuram and Doorgapet, the casting out of devils, the practice of healing and of divination. He neither stole nor used violence. It was difficult to believe that he could have been guilty of having taken part in an exceptionally brutal murder.

There was nothing to be done but to execute the order. The best person to do this without giving offence to the Kurumba or his clients was Inspector Hillary. He knew the old man well, and spoke his language. He would perform the disagreeable task with as little friction as possible.

Varadia carried the blue envelope that contained the order to Doorgapet, starting at dawn so as to catch Hillary before he went out. The Inspector set about fulfilling his commission without delay, and left his bungalow within a quarter of an hour of the constable’s arrival. His intention was to keep Varadia with him and to make the arrest on his way back. But when he asked for the constable, he was told that the man had already departed on the return journey.

Hillary smiled as he received the information, and thought, “I shall have to do this business by myself. Not much hope of having any hearty co-operation from the peons after our experience the other day. I’m sorry the old chap has got into trouble; hope we shall be able to pull him out of it somehow; we must try.”

The way to Ellapuram led directly past the cave where the Kurumba was usually to be found. He was there seated just outside his dwelling, sunning himself, after his custom, in the warm sunlight. Hillary had often seen him sitting thus. If not pressed for time the Inspector stopped to have a chat, resting upon a stone. On these occasions the Kurumba kept his position without moving. To-day, on the approach of the Inspector, he rose at once and advanced to meet him.

“I know your errand, sir. It will save trouble if I come now to the police station,” he said quietly.

“The constable who brought the paper to me told you of his errand?”

“I have seen no man. I know what I know without the aid of the human tongue.”

“Varadia, the police peon, passed this morning on his journey to my house with the order for your arrest.”

“The constable, knowing the business of the government paper, did not dare to pass this way. He took a game track that goes below and joins the path higher up. He is a poor, foolish man. Why should I do him any harm? The bullock is not responsible for the direction taken by the driver.”

They were walking down the hill-side at a swift pace, the Kurumba a yard or two behind the Inspector.

“You are charged with having helped your brother to kill the child.”

“That, too, I know. It is all written in the book of fate—that which I did and that which I did not do.”

“You did not help to murder the child,” said Hillary, who was surprised at the attitude of his prisoner.

“Your honour knows the truth. At the time that the child died you were speaking with me. We talked of the shadow man who comes when the danger of death is near.”

“Yes, yes! I remember!” said Hillary, eagerly.

“And of the animal that contains the other part of a man’s mind; the animal that calls to man when he is troubled. Your honour often hears the deer of the forest barking.”

The Inspector smiled. Perhaps there was a strain of unbelief in the smile. The Kurumba could not see his face as they walked. It was strange, however, that the old man replied as if he had recognized the smile of incredulity, and would combat it.

“Your honour loves to be in the jungle with the trees and birds and animals. The deer loves the jungle, too. When it is young it is timid and apt to run away. Afterwards, when its horns have grown, it is clever and bold, ready to fight if fighting be necessary, but watchful and alert, so that fighting is not necessary. There is nothing done in the jungle that the deer does not know. It is the same with your honour who comes and goes like the rain, and who also knows the forest like the deer.”

“It may be so; the gods alone can tell,” replied Hillary, in the fashion of the country. “Your familiar animal is the bat that lives in your cave.”

“It has been very restless lately. Last night it shook its wings of skin and cried in its small voice. This morning it creeps about the cave still crying.”

“You need have no fear of being found guilty, old father. You will call me as a witness, and I shall prove that you were at this very spot, fifty miles distant from the place where the murder was committed at the time.”

“If witnesses are wanted they will be found. The police under the tracker’s orders, will not fail to bring one or two men who will swear that they saw me.”

“What is the word of a native against that of a European?” asked Hillary. “If any man dares to bring false witness against you, we will convict him of perjury, and put him in jail.”

When they were some hundred yards from the village, the Kurumba stopped and drew from a fold in his waistcloth a crystal. It had a milky appearance without being opaque, and it was set in a kind of cage of delicate silver filigree work, to which was attached a ring. A cord was passed through the ring and went round his neck. He stood for some minutes intently gazing into the crystal.

“Well, what does it say?” asked Hillary, as he waited with the patience he might have shown to a child.

“It is dim and cloudy; but I see that your honour will not come to clear my name.”

“I tell you that I will.”

The Kurumba looked again, and then replaced the crystal without speaking. At the police station he was received by the constables in respectful silence, and placed in the lock-up cell. Hillary sat down in the verandah of the building to rest, and also to wait for his superior officer, who was to ride up from his camp and meet him there. Benacre arrived a quarter of an hour later, and was told of what had passed.

“I am glad that the old fellow came quietly. I suppose he knows that he is innocent and that you will be able to clear him?”

“On the contrary, he is despondent and seems to think that I shall not be there at all,” said Hillary.

“You are sure of your facts?”

“I will swear to them. I must have been half an hour at least chatting with him. He happened to be in a communicative mood and interested me not a little in his strange folk-lore and beliefs.”

“The letter I have received from the Superintendent of that district says that the evidence against the Kurumba is overwhelming. He was seen with his brother immediately after the crime, with the same incriminating marks upon his person—the blood-stained cloth, the blotch upon his chest, and stained finger-nails. He also carried the same kind of knife. The two men were so remarkably alike that they must have been brothers.”

“There is no mistake as to the date, I suppose?” said Hillary.

“None whatever. The deed was undoubtedly perpetrated at sunset on the fifth—the day of the full moon.”

“It was at sunset on the fifth that I sat upon the stone near the entrance of the cave and talked to the Kurumba. I made a note of it in my diary.”

“That’s conclusive, and your evidence will be sufficient to clear him of all suspicion. The trial is to take place three days hence. You will have to go to Pothanur for it. I shall still be in camp down the valley. You had better leave Doorgapet the evening before and come to the camp to dine and sleep. You can ride to the railway station on my pony the next morning, and catch the mail train. You will be in ample time to give your evidence, and you can take the night mail back.”

“Thank you, sir. It will certainly make the journey easier if I can break it in that way. I’ll be with you about half-past six in the evening.”

Hillary went to the cell to see that the Kurumba had all that would conduce to his comfort. It did not mean that he had ordered him to be supplied with soft cushions and rich food. What the Inspector wished to ensure was that his caste sensibilities should not be offended by officious constables, that his food should be served in a proper manner, and that his jailers should treat him respectfully. Hillary believed implicitly in the man’s innocence. He found him seated upon a fine mat that had been supplied by Varadia.

“The trial is to be held three days hence. I shall be there to clear your name, so you need not worry yourself.”

The Kurumba’s eyes rested upon him with a curious expression.

“Your honour is good to all natives; all the same, you will not come.”

“If I don’t prove an alibi for you—that you were somewhere else at the time of the murder—it will go hard with you,” rejoined Hillary, quickly. “Don’t put too much faith in that piece of glass into which you look for visions. It contains a lying devil.”

“It speaks nothing but the truth.”

“What else does it show? That you are to be hung for a murder that you haven’t committed?” asked Hillary, with a touch of contempt in his voice.

“There is something in it that I do not understand,” said the old man after a slight pause. “The lightning—a thin stream that moves silently and without noise—crosses the crystal when I look. It darkens everything else.”

“Have you any other brother besides this man?” asked Hillary.

“No, sir; he was the only other child of our parents. We lived in a Kurumba village in the jungle. After he was born the sickness took both our parents, and we were sent to our father’s brother, who taught us magic and the art of weaving spells and casting out devils. My brother was never content. He was always searching for treasure. I, as your honour knows, after wandering for a time settled in the cave in the jungle. Of what use is gold to me? The village people give me grain for my services, as much as I want, and the chetties give the rest in exchange for my good-will.”

All the same, Hillary knew that he probably had his little hoard hidden away somewhere in the forest; but he made no comment.

“Gold has apparently been used to produce the false witnesses who are to appear against you. If it is not gold, I cannot think what can be the motive. The Assistant Superintendent tells me that the man who helped your brother was exactly like him.”

The Kurumba’s eyes were fixed upon Hillary’s, and a strange light shone in their depths.

“My brother had no one with him. He would not accept help even if he could get it. He always stood alone. Does your honour remember our talk that day, and all that I told about the shadow-man who comes to speak of death? My brother has done a great evil that will perhaps bring him near to death. The man who was seen came to warn and not to assist.”

“Whoever it was, I can prove that it was not you; and you must not suffer for that which was the work of another’s hands.”

The Kurumba’s head drooped as he answered with the resignation of the fatalist—

“If the gods will it, who can prevent it?”

“I am going back to Doorgapet,” said Hillary, who knew how useless it was to combat fatalism in an oriental. “Can I do anything for you?”

“Your honour will be passing the cave. Will you see if the bat hangs quietly from the roof or if it still crawls and cries?”

“I can look in; but I cannot let you have a message about it, because I am not returning until the day after to-morrow, by which time you will be gone.”

“Your honour will watch the bat for the time it takes to make fifty paces along a level path. Stand in the spot of sunlight where I sit. If it still cries and creeps, lift your arms against the rock and keep them moving, so; but if the bat is quiet, then stand still with your arms by your side for the same time that you spend watching it.”

“And what messenger will bring the news?”

“The spirit of the crystal.”

“Why can’t the spirit show you the bat?”

“Because the bat is of myself; and also the cave is dark.”

Hillary left the cell, and after a few words to the head constable, started on his return journey to Doorgapet. The path led him through beautiful jungle that had never suffered from forest fires. The giant trees shot up from the undergrowth fully thirty feet before they spread their gnarled branches. Tender-leaved shrubs flourished where the trees were not too thick. Their sweet-scented blossoms trembled with the flashing little honey-sucker birds that pierced the bells with their slender beaks as they hovered over them. The ground was everywhere carpeted with ferns and flowers that sprang from beds of the delicate lycopodium, such as is seen in warm conservatories in England. Birds twittered and chattered, and the whistling Malabar thrush, inspired by the babbling stream, sang its fragmentary song. High up on Doorga’s side sounded the coughing bark of the sambur stag, uttering its warning cry of some danger scented. Hillary recalled the words of the Kurumba. The old man had been apt in his description of himself. He had many things in common with the stag, and he loved his life in the forest. He had run away from trouble when he ought to have stood fast; on the other hand, he had suffered from youthful rashness. Now his horns were grown and his wits were sharpened by experience; but he had no desire to leave the jungle and seek the haunts of man again.

“If I live long enough in the forest perhaps I may believe some of the old fellow’s superstitions. There are many things about him that puzzle me.”

At a sharp turn in the zigzagging path he encountered Ramayan, the tracker. He stopped and expressed surprise at seeing him there.

“I have just been examining the cave,” he explained. “I thought it possible that I might find the knife he used. We have his brother’s knife, a curious old sacrificial implement from some wayside temple.”

“You have blood upon your face. What is the matter?” asked Hillary.

“It is a scratch, your honour,” replied the man, wiping away the crimson drops. “A bat dropped down from the roof and its hooked claws tore my cheek, just under my eye. I hate bats,” he added as an afterthought. “I have always hated them!”

“Fortunate for you that it missed the eye. About this Kurumba. He had nothing to do with the murder.”

“He was seen in his brother’s company at the time, with the same incriminating marks upon him, and with a knife precisely like the one used by the first murderer,” replied Ramayan, positively.

“It doesn’t matter what witnesses you bring against him; I can prove that he was fifty miles away from the spot at the time the deed was done,” said Hillary, resenting the tracker’s attitude towards an innocent man. “Why wasn’t he taken at the time?”

Ramayan smiled in a manner that further irritated the Inspector.

“Both the men escaped before the alarm was given, as your honour knows,” answered the tracker. “We have them in safe custody now. They will be convicted and will suffer the full penalty of the law.”

“Our man will not. I shall be able to swear that I saw and spoke with him here, on this very spot, at the time the murder was committed.”

“Your honour will remember the strange things that happened when we tried to arrest the first murderer here, some days ago. Is it not possible that there may have been some of the same sort of trickery by which you were deceived?” asked Ramayan, with another smile that made it difficult for Hillary to keep his temper.

“I know very well what happened,” he replied. “I am prepared to swear that I talked with him and not with his shadow that day, just as I could swear that I am talking with you and not with your shadow. I shall be present at the trial without fail; and let me tell you that if there is any tampering with the old man himself, any attempt on the part of your constables to extort a confession, there’ll be trouble.”

Ten minutes later Hillary entered the cave. The bat was there, but not hanging from its usual place in the roof. It was upon the floor, where it had fallen after its encounter with the tracker. He wondered whether the incident related by the tracker was accidental; he had never heard of a bat making an attack upon a human being. Then the Inspector, smiling at his own weakness in acceding to the request of the old man, stood in the patch of sunlight where the Kurumba was wont to sit, and, raising his arms above his head, he waved them as though signalling to some one on the opposite hill-side.

Chapter XVII

The Paddybird’s Misconduct

Benacre’s cook was busy before a row of camp cooking fires built to leeward of the kitchen tent. He was preparing the dinner with more than usual care—in the first place because his master had a guest, and secondly because he wished to show the Inspector’s servant how far superior his own cooking was to his.

Raju sat by the mat on which the Paddybird had spread his pots and pans. He had just completed the story of a grievance that was rankling in his mind. He had asked for a rise in his wages and been refused.

“Has the Inspector had his pay raised?” enquired the Paddybird.

“His pay cannot be raised until he is promoted.”

“Neither can your pay be increased,” said the Paddybird, decisively. “It is foolish to ask for it.”

“Am I always to do the duties of headboy, cook, matey, and dressing-boy with the wages of only one?” asked Raju, indignantly. “I will look for another master!”

“It is best to be patient,” counselled the Paddybird.

“It is easier to mount the elephant when he is kneeling and wait for his rising, than to try to spring upon his back when he is moving.”

While he talked he took the sirloin of beef out of the primitive oven to see if it was progressing satisfactorily. He was an artist in his way, and spared no pains to make the food appetizing and palatable. He returned the joint to the oven, and spread the charcoal over the earthenware baking dishes so as to distribute the heat.

“I boil the joint a little before roasting, and so save the soup meat charged for in the account,” remarked Raju, in a tone of superior wisdom.

“That may be necessary in the Inspector’s house. Small pay makes a small bazaar account and small profits to the cook. Inspector’s beef cannot be as good as Assistant Superintendent’s beef,” replied the Paddybird with crushing condescension.

“And Superintendent’s gravy from the joint will not be as good as Commissioner’s gravy,” replied Raju; sharply.

“Perhaps,” allowed the Paddybird, dexterously patting some rissoles into shape with a couple of pieces of flat bamboo. He called to the Poochee. “Bring the saucepan for sauce.”

“Why do you give sauce? I always serve rissoles with fried parsley and chopped egg.”

“In that way no change in the taste is made; and if you put in goat’s flesh your master knows it. I always keep a little game to add to the rissoles, it gives flavour. I serve with a good sauce, well seasoned, and I charge for best mutton in the house account. I am an honest man. I do not spoil the meat by boiling first for soup; and if I put goat’s flesh into the rissoles, I take care that my master never finds it out. He gives no trouble, and never grumbles at the food. As long as the master eats plenty, he keeps well; and when the master keeps well, the cook flourishes.”

“I should not care if my master were sick. Then he would go to England and give me a good character chit that would get me a better place, perhaps, with some bigger gentleman.”

The matey came up at this moment with some plates to be warmed. Relations between him and Raju were a little strained. The former had been a candidate for the hand of Phulmoni, Raju’s little daughter. The Paddybird had stepped in on behalf of the Poochee and out-bidden the matey, promising a sum of money for the wedding expenses exceeding anything that the other could raise with his small salary. The resentment of the disappointed lover—a man of over forty, and having no pretence to good looks or any of the qualities that charm the feminine heart—was directed against the father of the girl, who, he considered, had played him false. A silence fell on the little party, and the Inspector’s servant showed his contempt by rising and walking off to his master’s tent.

“The whisky bottle is empty,” remarked the matey. “Another bottle must be got out.”

The Paddybird kept the key of the box that contained the liquor. He glanced up with annoyance.

“Why didn’t you tell me so earlier in the day? I have to make the sauce for the rissoles, strain the soup, see——”

“I’ll strain the soup,” said the matey, interrupting him.

“No, you will not,” replied the Paddybird, angrily. “You are always too ready to do other men’s work and neglect your own! Can the dhoby’s donkey carry the water-pot from the river? Let him mind his own bundles of linen!”

He called to the Poochee, who was frying the rissoles. The pan was handed over to the kitchen woman with injunctions to keep the fat boiling, and the Poochee took charge of the two saucepans, one containing the soup, the other the sauce. It was within twenty minutes of the dinner-hour, which was fixed for seven. How the Paddybird and his assistants could pursue their domestic duties in the darkness, with fires in the open, and the operations illuminated only by the light from a couple of hurricane lanterns, was a marvel. No sooner had the cook disappeared into the dining tent than the matey approached the Poochee aggressively.

“I know I can make soup as well as a boy like you,” he said, pushing against him and forcibly wresting the iron spoon from his hand.

Taken off his guard, the kitchen matey was deposed, and his fellow servant stirred the soup with a grin of triumph on his face. He never lost an opportunity of bullying the boy and of twitting him about his youth. In the midst of the contest over the soup the Paddybird returned. His method was short and sharp. He dealt the officious matey a blow that sent him reeling backwards, and he bade the Poochee resume his work at once, whilst he soundly rated both indiscriminately. The discomfited man picked himself up, rubbed his shoulder, and retired with a grin, apparently rather pleased with his short triumph. The Paddybird glanced at his retreating form and placed his foot upon a piece of white paper. When his assistant’s eyes were turned in another direction, he lifted the paper with his toes and thrust it into his pocket. There was unusual silence round the fires. More than once the Poochee caught his relative buried in deep thought. He looked at him with anxiety. Something had occurred to disturb the master of the kitchen. “I could not help it, little father. That fool matey is in a bad temper because we have taken Raju’s daughter from him.”

“Pay no attention to him. The snarling of a disappointed dog does not always mean that he will bite. Make the toast for the snipe.”

At the appointed hour the dinner was done to a turn and ready to be served upon the table. The cook washed his hands and slipped on a clean coat.

“There will be no need for you to wait to-night,” remarked the matey, who with Raju stood looking on, while the Paddybird ladled the soup out of the saucepan into the plates.

Raju and the matey stooped to lift them from the mat.

“Leave them alone,” roughly ordered the Paddybird; and handing the saucepan to the Poochee, he took up the plates and carried them through the darkness towards the tent. The two men followed empty-handed.

In his haste the Paddybird caught his foot in one of the tent ropes at the entrance of the tent, and fell flat upon his face. The enamelled plates flew to right and left with a discordant clatter of metal, and the hot soup was lost upon the ground. The matey cast an evil glance at the prostrate cook, and moved swiftly to Benacre’s side.

“I think Paddybird drunk, sir,” he whispered.

Benacre rose from his chair and went to the entrance. The cook had picked himself up and was rubbing his knees. There was soup upon his white coat; and the little turban that he wore had fallen off, leaving his shaven head bare. Altogether, he presented rather a sorry sight.

“What’s the meaning of this?” asked the master in an unusually stern voice. “You have been drinking.”

“No, sir; I not drinking man, Only plenty too dark to-night, sir.”

“But I tell you that you are the worse for liquor.”

“No, sir; I not that sort of man,” persisted the Paddybird in an injured tone, and covered with shame.

“I don’t care what you say. I can see for myself that you look as if you were intoxicated.”

“Can’t help looking drunk sometimes when plenty bother got in the kitchen,” replied the Paddybird, thoroughly aggrieved. “No, sir; if I look drunk, then that is my misfortune, but not my fault. I tell true word only. I am not drunk this time.”

“Have you any more soup?”

“No, sir; all the soup gone to pot in the grass, sir. But nice rissole coming, made of best mutton; roast beef, and snipe, and savoury, and proper pudding, and cheese, and mangoes, and coffee.”

“Oh, all right,” said Benacre, more mildly. He was satisfied by the cook’s coherent speech that the drinking had not been very deep. “I dare say we shall not miss the soup with that list. Get back to the kitchen tent, and let the matey and the Inspector’s boy do the waiting. Don’t attempt it again yourself, do you hear?”

The dinner proceeded without a hitch. It was excellent, and there was no sign of a want of sobriety on the part of the cook in its preparation. Coffee was sent up and placed upon a small table standing between the two arm-chairs, which the matey put in position himself, telling Raju that he did not require his help. On the same table was a supply of cigars and matches.

As Hillary and Benacre were lighting up, the Paddybird once more appeared, asking for his orders for the next day. What time would the Inspector wish to be called, and how early would breakfast be required. As he waited for the answer he lurched against the table, and Benacre’s cup of coffee was upset. Hillary, seeing the movement, seized his own cup and just saved it from a like fate.

Benacre was not a hasty man by nature, but there was a limit to his endurance, and the Paddybird had reached it. He sprang up, caught his servant by the scruff of his neck and thrust him out of the tent. The cook struggled, trying in vain to speak, the words were choked in his throat.

“That coffee not good, sir. I make better,” he said at last.

“It is excellent coffee; a little bitter because it is burned, but very good all the same,” said Hillary, setting down his empty cup.

As the words fell on the ears of the Paddybird he became suddenly quiet, and his excitement died down.

“Get away, you brute!” said Benacre, angrily. “No, I don’t want coffee. Find your blanket and your mat and go to bed. To-morrow I will talk to you!”

Silently the Paddybird walked away from the tent. There was nothing erratic in his movement as he strode off into the darkness.

“I can’t think what’s the matter with him. He must have been smoking hemp or opium; yet he seems wide awake.”

At three o’clock the next morning the cook stood by Benacre’s side.

“Sir, the Inspector is ill. He asks for brandy.”

He was out of bed in a moment.

“Good Heavens! What is if? Is it cholera?”

“Don’t know, sir. Master got any chlorodyne?”

*  *  *

The Kurumba, with the calm resignation of the fatalist, stood by the side of his brother in the dock. His eyes searched the crowd for the figure of the Englishman whose testimony was to save him from the brand of murder and perhaps from the hangman’s rope. He was nowhere to be seen. Once or twice he caught the eye of the tracker, who smiled as if his triumph was secure. The scratch across the face of the latter was inflamed, and it gave him a sinister expression that was not pleasant to behold. Evidence had been forthcoming from a man who swore positively that he saw two figures moving away from the spot where the murder was committed. Both had marks of blood upon them. They were exactly alike, and must have been brothers. He identified the prisoners as being the two men he had seen.

At this juncture a post peon entered the magistrate’s court and handed in a telegram. When the case for the prosecution was ended, the magistrate adjourned the proceedings till the following day, saying that the chief witness on behalf of the prisoner from Ellapuram was indisposed; but he hoped to be well enough to attend the next morning.

“You are sure that you can manage the journey?” asked Benacre of his subordinate, as he helped him to mount the pony in the dim light of the early dawn.

“Yes, sir; I’m all right now. I had rather a bad shake up at the time; but a good night’s rest has set me straight.”

Benacre watched Hillary ride away in the direction of the railway station; then he turned to the Paddybird, who was standing near—

“Was the coffee tampered with?” he asked, looking keenly at his servant.

“I don’t know, sir; how can I tell? I picked up this piece of paper near the fire where the soup was boiled. Perhaps some one making humbug; perhaps the Inspector proper sick; perhaps Raju making sick—can’t say. Master, please forgive! Perhaps poor Paddybird a little drinking and a little knocked off his chump. Can’t remember anything. Very sorry, sir; never doing so again. I not that sort of man.”

By which speech Benacre was given to understand that the cook did not mean to make any accusations against his fellow servants, certainly for the present.

“The case isn’t ended,” remarked Benacre.

“No, sir; but no good trying to kill the fowl till done catch, sir.”

Of one thing Benacre was now assured, and that was, that his servant was as sober as himself at the time when he had accused him of being drunk.

Chapter XVIII

The Tracker’s Spite

The evidence given by Hillary at the trial cleared the Kurumba from all suspicion of complicity in the crime with which his brother was charged. The sharp cross-examination to which the Inspector was subjected failed to shake his testimony to the alibi. He swore positively that he was in the company of the Kurumba on that particular date. Concise and decisive in his statements, his evidence carried conviction to all who heard him.

As for the witness who swore to having seen the Kurumba with the murderer, his testimony was set aside as false.

The tracker Ramayan was puzzled. He had reason to believe that this witness had not been tampered with, and that he gave his evidence in good faith. If there had been any tampering at all, it was with the Inspector. After what the tracker had already experienced, he was inclined to accredit the Kurumba with some mysterious power that might be due to witchcraft; but which was more likely to be the result of chicanery and the skilful use of obscure native drugs. By these means the Inspector was persuaded of the presence of the latter at the cave when in reality he was absent.

Hillary, on the other hand, was morally sure that the native witness had been bribed by the tracker, who had his own reasons for desiring to get the old man into trouble. In the minds of the constables there was no doubt about the matter. The magician was innocent. The tracker had attempted to involve him, but had been unsuccessful. The Kurumba by his occult powers had frustrated the evil intention. More than one of Ramayan’s subordinates ventured to tender a piece of advice to the effect that it would be better not to persecute the old man further, but, if possible, keep out of his path altogether.

At the end of the day the Kurumba was discharged; but his brother was convicted and sentenced.

It was arranged that Hillary should spend the night at the Inspector’s bungalow at Pothanur and return home early the next morning, stopping for lunch at Benacre’s camp on his way to Doorgapet. He sought out the Kurumba soon after the old man left the court, and enquired if he had money enough to pay his rail fare back. If not, Hillary himself was prepared to supply his need. The Kurumba did not reply immediately. His eyes wandered round the busy scene outside the court-house. A group of constables stood near the building; among them was the tracker.

“I have business here, and I have business there,” was the somewhat enigmatical reply.

“You had better come back with me,” counselled the Inspector, who was aware of the tracker’s animosity towards the old man.

The Kurumba looked Hillary full in the eyes and wagged his head with something more than assent to the proposition. Then he glanced at the tracker, and again wagged his head; but there was no sign of fear.

“I will go with your honour in the fire-carriage; it will be best. I need not wait here for him; he will follow.”

“There is nothing to wait for, and you need have no fear of being followed. I will take your ticket; so mind that you are there.”

“I will not fail, your honour.”

Ramayan approached with the suspicion of a scowl upon his face. The wound made from the claws of the bat as it fell upon him in his exploration of the Kurumba’s dwelling was inflamed. At the time when the accident occurred the scratch did not seem severe. It bled a little, as a similar wound from the claws of a cat might bleed. He thought nothing of it, and omitted the simple precaution of cleansing it. There must have been something poisonous in the touch to have produced the inflammation that followed. Even now the wound was left exposed, no attention having been bestowed upon it beyond the application of a little oil.

“I cleared the old man of all suspicion, as I told you I would,” said Hillary, not without a note of pardonable pride in his tone.

“There is something in it that I do not understand, sir. The man who saw the murderer and his companion was not bribed. I am sure that he received no money.”

“A bribe can be effected by other means besides silver,” replied Hillary, with a sharp glance at the tracker. “The man may have had some object in getting the Kurumba convicted. Possibly it was due to spite; or he was the tool of another who bore malice.”

They spoke in English, which was an unknown language to the magician. He had seated himself on his heels at the commencement of the conversation. One elbow rested on his knee, the hand supporting his head; the other arm was extended at full length, resting on the other knee, and the hand hung down limply from the wrist. He was not asleep. The keen brown eyes were fixed upon the face of the tracker with a curious contemplative expression, as though he were unconsciously reading what was passing in the other’s mind, which was spread open before him like the pages of a book. Why he waited was known only to himself. His presence was no longer required; the interview with Hillary was at an end as soon as the arrangement was made for the return journey. There was nothing to prevent him from moving away to the chuttrum or native rest-house, where he could remain until it was time to go to the railway station.

“It is quite possible that there may be spite,” returned Ramayan, showing no sign of confusion at the Inspector’s insinuations. “The Kurumba’s manner is not pleasant. He gives himself the airs of a person of caste, when he is only an ignorant jungle man. He is nothing more than a valluvan”—at the term valluvan, which the Kurumba understood, his eyes seemed to flash under their snapping lids with an angry light—“a native conjurer, who imposes upon the ignorant hill people with his tricks. A taste of prison life would do him no harm, even if he didn’t happen to be guilty in this particular instance.”

“I have known him for three years, and during the whole of that period he has never once come under our censure.”

“That does not prove him innocent of all crime. It merely shows that he is more cunning than the rest, and up to the present has managed to avoid detection. Look at that trick he played upon us the other day! Such a trick ought not to go unpunished. I took care to charge him with aiding and abetting the man to escape. You saved him by saying that he was asleep at the time you entered the cave.”

“So he was,” replied Hillary, with some animation. “You saw for yourself that he never moved a finger to stop us from kicking down the fire or to prevent us from going inside the cave.”

“What about the poison stuff he sprinkled upon the fire which blinded our eyes?” asked Ramayan, his anger smouldering deep within him at the thought of how he had been baffled in his pursuit of the real criminal.

“We could not say honestly that we were blinded by fire or smoke. There was not a single movement made to hinder us in our work. If we failed to distinguish the man whilst the Kurumba slept that surely was our fault. I am willing to admit that I don’t know how it happened. It is all a mystery to me. If I am to believe the evidence of my own eyes, the criminal was not in the cave when we entered.”

“Your cook saw him.”

Hillary smiled as he answered.

“My cook is a most excellent man in the kitchen, but outside his province he is apt to let a vivid imagination carry him away. Though we lost our quarry, you succeeded in running the man down afterwards in a manner that does you great credit; and having caught him and brought him to justice, I think that we might let the matter drop as far as this old man is concerned.”

“You forget that I did not escape bodily harm altogether.”

“I am sorry you had that accident, but you must remember that it took place when the Kurumba was already in my custody. You don’t blame him for the action of the bat, do you?”

Ramayan did not reply immediately. He looked at the old jungle man and met the hypnotic eyes with a resentful stare. They glittered underneath the prominent brows as they were fixed upon the tracker. The whole vitality of the man seemed centred in them. Not a muscle moved, not a limb stirred; no part of him showed any sign of active life but those gleaming eyes. Was the bat his chosen guardian or servant? It was an unpleasant thought. The tracker raised his hand and touched the wound on his face. The Kurumba noted the action and drew in a deep breath.

“Who can say, sir, what devilry these men may be up to? He may have trained the beast to act like a dog when a stranger entered the cave in his absence. It is a mistake to stand in the way of justice towards these kind of people when it comes. Here was an opportunity of punishing a man who undoubtedly deserves punishment, though he has been cunning enough up to the present to evade it. You stepped in with your evidence, and he escaped.”

“It would not be justice to punish an innocent man,” said Hillary, somewhat indignantly.

The tracker smiled in a superior manner.

“That is just where you and I do not agree. I say that he is not innocent, though I will allow if you like that he had no hand in the murder of the child; and as we are sure that he is guilty of some villainy or other and deserves punishment, the sooner we can let him have it the better. That being so, what is the good of troubling about the particular manner through which he is brought to punishment? The end is what we desire; therefore let him get his just dues.”

“Oh, come now, Ramayan; that sort of justice is not according to English ideas. It is a fortunate thing for my old friend here that you are not the magistrate,” said Hillary with a laugh.

The light was dying from the sky, and night was approaching. The birds had gone to roost, and the creatures of the dark hours were beginning to come forth. A jackal’s howl was raised in the far distance across the cultivated fields and awoke a responsive bark in a pariah dog. Moths fluttered through the still air towards the flowering gourds that embowered the mud houses of the straggling native town; and the predatory bat was out on its night-hawking among the insects. At the sound of the leathern wings beating the air the tracker started and once more his hand sought the wound upon his face, this time not to soothe, but protect.

“I did not know how those beasts could scratch until that devil attacked me in the cave!” he said, as he cast an apprehensive glance skywards.

“You frightened it and it fell upon you accidentally. You need have no fear of an attack from a bat. It is far too timid to molest any one unless it is accidentally hurt; then, of course, it might be expected to bite.”

“Look at the Kurumba, sir!”

Hillary turned, and in the dim light saw the old man move the hand that was outstretched. The bat that had upset the nerves of the tracker flew down to within an inch or so of the bony fingers. It hovered for a few seconds, and made a dash at a small object dropped by the Kurumba.

“He is a man of the forest, and makes friends with all the creatures that live in the jungle,” said Hillary. “Well, Ramayan, as I said just now, you deserve credit for the way in which you followed the murderer out of the country and caught him at last. I hope you will get your reward. Now that the case is ended, let this old fellow alone. A man’s guilt need not taint his brother. You have quite enough to do tracking known criminals without troubling about those whose crimes are supposititious. Have you any case on hand just now?”

“A receiver of stolen goods is wanted. We have a strong suspicion that he is negotiating the transportation of arms into one of the native states. I wonder if the Kurumba has had anything to do with the business.”

“I am sure he hasn’t,” replied Hillary; promptly, and not very tolerantly. The tracker’s vindictiveness irritated him, and he determined in his own mind to carry the old man safely away on the following morning.

“The goods have been traced into the Western Ghats, and there we have lost sight of them. It is known for certain that some rifles have been imported by way of Bombay into a native state in the South, and it is believed that they are concealed in the same locality as the stolen property. I shall be looking round your district during the next week.”

“Get your tracking done before the monsoon sets in. It will be upon us in about ten days’ time, perhaps sooner. Our district is not a pleasant place in the rains. It is too wet even for thieves to be abroad, which is fortunate for us police.”

Hillary bade him good-night, and walked away in the direction of the house where he was to spend the night. The Kurumba rose and without a word moved slowly towards the chuttrum. The tracker gazed after him in no friendly fashion.

“I should like to show Inspector Hillary the true character of that man,” he said to himself. “These Englishmen know no more of the hillmen than they know of the wild bees of the jungle—low-caste scoundrels, up to every kind of trick. They need a strong hand over them!”

He turned towards the town and sought the house which he occupied in company with many other members of his family. The evening meal was ready; when it was finished, instead of retiring to rest, he strolled out in the direction of the rest-house. Why he did so he could not have explained. If he obeyed an instinct that prompted him to keep an eye upon the Kurumba, he was not aware of it. Tired, and badly in need of sleep though he was, something, he knew not what, drew him to the chuttrum, where the old man rested till the early morning mail was due. He had no desire to speak with him, nor did he suspect him of sneaking away. It was an unreasoning impulse to which he yielded against his will, as though he obeyed a will stronger than his own.

The Kurumba had established himself in a corner of the verandah, leaving the building itself to the other occupants, who, like himself, had come into the place for the trials. He was accustomed to the cold air of the mountains, and preferred the verandah to the warmer and more confined space inside. A hermit by habit, he shrank from the curious, chattering crowd, with their endless questions and unblushing personal remarks.

Ramayan drew near that portion of the building where the Kurumba sat. The latter was not asleep. He had lighted a little earthenware lamp, and was occupied in burning some substance that flared and smoked in its combustion.

Above the building flew the bats that roosted in it by day. No longer dazzled by the sun, the creatures dashed hither and thither with the soft sound of fluttering wings. One of them passed close to the ear of the watcher, wafting a faint breath of air with its wing upon his bare, shaven head. He put up his hand to protect himself, and the bat uttered a shrill cry.

The Kurumba extinguished the light and rose to his feet. He raised his hand and scattered what the tracker took to be a handful of grey ashes. Half a dozen bats darted out of the darkness upon the fragments and disappeared as mysteriously—all but one, which again circled over the head of the watcher, this time actually brushing him ever so lightly with its wing.

The Kurumba sank down into his corner; and Ramayan, concluding that he had settled for the night, returned to his house. The tracker wrapped himself in his blanket and was soon asleep. It was not an easy or restful slumber. Dreams troubled him, and he tossed this way and that in impotent efforts to escape from visionary bats and flying foxes that ever pursued him,

Out of the multitude of his persecutors came one that grew larger as he focussed his dream eyes upon it. It flew towards him and bore a horrible likeness to the Kurumba. It opened its mouth and showed its sharp white teeth. With a scream it made for his throat.

He awoke to find that the scream came from his wife, who had risen early to warm some coffee for him before he started on his journey. In groping for the charcoal she had placed her hand upon a small live object, soft and furry, without legs, and yet possessing some member that scratched and clung.

Ramayan leaped to his feet, took the lamp down from its niche in the wall and examined the beast. It was a small bat. It blinked at him with the bright black eyes he had seen in his dreams. He seized it and threw it out violently into the darkness of the early morning.

Two hours later the train left Pothanur carrying Hillary and the old hermit. Unseen by the Inspector, Ramayan entered a third-class carriage with a ticket for the same station.

Chapter XIX

The Bewitching of the Tracker

Benacre’s camp was pitched about seven miles from Ellapuram, on a smooth green sward a little distance from the road. The elevation was not much lower than that of the village by the bridge. A branch of the river passed below the spot. Behind the camp rose a hill covered with forest. Patches of cultivation on terraced ground lay on the other side of the stream, showing that the hand of man was busy warring against the luxuriant riot of nature, and compelling her to yield him her fruits.

The Paddybird, aware of the near approach of the monsoon, and that he would soon be at head-quarters, where there was little chance of sport, spent every available hour with his gun. Sometimes it was in the cultivated fields by the river, where snipe and wildfowl might be found. At other times it was in the forest where lurked the jungle-fowl and pigeon.

It was the day after Hillary’s return from Pothanur. Benacre was absent from camp on business from breakfast until dinner. The cook determined to seize this opportunity to revisit his old hunting-ground in the jungle above the village of Ellapuram. He knew it better than the country immediately around their present camping-place, and was less likely to find himself in some leech-infested swamp than lower down the valley. If there was any creature of the forest that the Paddybird especially disliked, it was the voracious leech.

No sooner had his master disappeared on his pony than the cook started off with his gun and game-bag. He followed the road, making little excursions here and there into the forest or fields by the way to look for game, until he came to the bridge. The village lay on the other side of it. So far, luck had not been with him, and his bag consisted only of a couple of partridges and two or three quail.

He stopped on the top of the bridge to gaze down into the sparkling water; he glanced at the shallows and mudbanks for a chance plover or redshank. There were very few birds that came amiss to the cook. Not only did he know how to kill them, but also how to serve them up as” game-bird,” a useful term that covered all kinds of winged creatures. Parrots had more than once figured as guinea-fowl in savoury pies; little bustards as fiorican; and partridges as plovers, since his master, in common with many Anglo-Indians, objected to the partridge on account of the bird’s want of discrimination in its diet.

At the sound of a soft footfall, he turned and saw the Kurumba. He salaamed, and the magician stopped.

“The village people as well as we of the Assistant Superintendent’s camp are pleased to see the dweller of the cave back again,” said the ready-tongued cook.

“The Inspector procured my release. Had it not been for his good services I might still be in prison. May the gods look upon him with favour!”

“It was fortunate that his sickness soon passed off.”

“Has it been discovered how the Inspector Dorai fell sick when he slept in your master’s camp?” asked the old man.

“We have found out nothing, swami.”

“Tomorrow I will come and make enquiry, for the matter cannot be passed over. Are all the people still there?”

“All but Raju, the Inspector’s servant. Will it be necessary to call him down from Doorgapet?”

“Since he is the only one absent there is no need.”

The Paddybird drew out the partridges from his bag and tendered them respectfully.

“Here are two birds. They curry like chickens. Take them, swami. You have doubtless had little to eat whilst you have been in custody.”

He handed the partridges over to the Kurumba with a show of performing a virtuous deed. He did not think it necessary to inform the recipient of his gift that his master had a prejudice against them and never ate them, unless they came to table under a feigned name disguised in a highly-flavoured sauce.

The Kurumba accepted the gift without comment, or thanks, as was his manner. The reward for the action would be bestowed by the gods according to its deserts. With another salaam the cook passed on his way, stopping to exchange a word or two with the villagers as he went by. He entered the forest and climbed steadily, penetrating by game tracks into its lonely depths. He knew the jungle well, almost as well as Varadia and the Inspector knew it. It was very silent. The fierce rays of an unclouded noonday sun penetrated into the cool shades, drawing up a warm moisture from the earth which was scented with sap and blossom. The morning breeze died away, and a heavy stillness brooded in the air. It was the calm before the breaking of the monsoon.

Up to this point the Paddybird had not seen a single bird worth powder and shot since he crossed the bridge. The beautiful blue roller bird and the golden oriole, that has been likened to a yellow flame, were of no use. They were allowed to slip in and out of the foliage unmolested. The tapping woodpecker sidled along the stem of a tree and sat upon its stiffened tail to strike the bark. A large hornbill rustled in the branches and snapped its monstrosity of a beak in its forage for fruit. None of these offered any inducement to the sportsman to raise his gun against them.

The mugginess of the jungle was oppressive, and after an hour’s climbing by forest tracks, through ravines and over the shoulders of hills, the Paddybird halted and seated himself upon a slab of rock. He sat upon his heels native fashion, with his gun resting at his feet. Out of his betel-bag he extracted a fresh leaf and occupied himself in rolling it with the condiments that go to make it palatable, much after the way in which a European rolls a cigarette, anticipating its pleasures in the preparation. The betel took the place of lunch, and while he chewed the aromatic morsel, his eyes travelled carefully over leaf and branch and stem in search of the shy pigeon and crafty jungle fowl.

Suddenly his ear caught a sound that caused him to stop masticating and to listen intently. It was far away, high up in the forest, in the direction of the Peak. Some animal cried out in the agony of its distress and terror. The Paddybird had heard the devil-bird at night on rare occasions. Its voice was uncanny. As a sportsman and a Christian, he knew that it was only a creature of the owl species, but its call invariably sent a shiver through his frame. Once he had caught the shriek of a terror-stricken stag as the leopard’s claws were buried in its shoulders; but he did not recognize in the sound that reached his ears either of these.

The cook rose to his feet, alert and listening, his gun in his hands ready for any emergency. The shriek rang out again, clear and distinct upon the motionless air. He marked the direction, and, with the instinct of the shikari, started towards it. The higher he mounted, the thinner the jungle became, and the better he was able to see the towering crag of rock that formed the head of the mountain. He walked and climbed for half an hour without hearing the cry again. The thought crossed his mind that he must have been deceived by an eagle, when it was suddenly repeated within a hundred yards of him. It was no eagle. Some animal shrieked in pain and terror.

For a brief moment he was possessed with an unreasoning impulse to run for dear life. The Paddybird was no coward, however. The impulse was mastered, and he was filled with a natural curiosity to discover the creature that gave expression to its pain.

The cry came from a rocky ravine which in the rains was a mountain torrent. He crept cautiously forward, his gun held in readiness if it should be needed in self-defence to protect him against the onslaught of some maddened wild beast. Something struggled between two large boulders that were overgrown with thorny creeper. To his astonishment a hand protruded from the foliage. It was a brown hand, and it was lifted as if to protect the owner from the assaults of some invisible aggressor.

The Paddybird paused to make sure that his eyes were not deceiving him, and then plunged down into the depths of the ravine to the rescue.

“Hi! hi!” he shouted. “Who are you, and what has happened to you?”

“Help me! Take the thing away! Beat it! Kill it! It has fastened its teeth into my back, and is eating my liver out! Help! help!”

The last words were uttered in a piercing tone that culminated in just such a scream as that which had startled the cook. Without further delay, he pressed forward to render assistance; but it was not an easy task to reach the spot. The undergrowth was thick with thorny lianes. Sharp spines curved backwards, and every yard of progression had to be contested inch by inch. The head of the terror-stricken man was pressed down into the foliage as though he were endeavouring to shelter himself from an invisible enemy. With his lacerated hands he beat at the thorny branches that scored him afresh at every movement.

“Keep still! You are tearing yourself to pieces with the thorns! Lie quiet until I can get at you,” shouted the Paddybird.

“Take it away! Oh! take it away! Ah! it has dug its teeth into me again!”

“Who are you?” asked the cook, pulling out a hunting knife that he always wore when he went into the jungle.

“I am Ramayan, the tracker. I fell into this ravine when I was trying to escape from a beast that pursued me!”

The man became quieter and more coherent under the soothing influence of companionship.

“There is no beast here,” replied the Paddybird, pausing in the use of the knife to keep a hand upon his gun. “Was it a leopard?”

“No! no!”

“A hyena?”

“Ah! no!”

“A stag?”

“No! no! Can’t you see it? It is upon my back now, where it has fastened its teeth into me!”

Again he wriggled, and once more the thorns gripped him mercilessly. The Paddybird’s anxiety disappeared, and he laid his gun upon the top of a boulder. With his knife he hacked away at the lianes. A supple, green stem thickly set with curved thorns, lay across the back of the tracker. By his own struggles he had caused it to pierce through the light tweed coat that he wore. Its sharp points penetrated his loins. The tell-tale crimson marks on the coat showed how vicious its grip had been.

“There is no animal upon your back. It is a piece of jungle creeper. If you will keep still I will take it off,” said the Paddybird, as he slashed here and there with his knife.

He removed a tangle of brambly stuff, more pliant and cruel than any British bramble; and came at last to the particular branch that had clung so closely. Its thorns were embedded in the garment, and care was necessary to avoid causing further wounds. During the operation the Paddybird assured Ramayan over and over again that his assailant was vegetable, and not a living animal. When at last the unhappy man was released, he was in a sorry plight. His body was scratched from head to foot, his clothing torn, and he was bleeding in every limb. It was not the sight of wounds that struck the Paddybird, but the expression on the tracker’s face. He had a hunted, terrified look in his eyes indicative that his nerves were unstrung. It seemed, to tell of some horrible and unusual experience, some mysterious encounter too awful to be described. The cook asked no questions, but led the way homewards to the camp. Ramayan followed closely at his heels, moving like a man who was under the spell of an evil dream.

When Benacre had dined that evening, and the matey had cleared the table, the Paddybird brought the usual cup of coffee and placed it upon the little tea-poy that held the cigars and matches.

“Ramayan is in camp, sir,” he said.

“Has he come to see me on business?”

“No, sir. I found him to-day in the jungle above the village by the bridge. Knowing that your honour would be out, I went into the forest to shoot grub for master’s table. While I was sloping along with a skinned eye for my prey, I heard an ear-splitting cry. I made towards it with caution, thinking to find distressful stag and leopard on horns of dilemma. But no; my suspicions were all agog. It was the tracker himself who cried for help.”

“What was the matter?”

“He had descended the hill in headlong haste and gone a howler in the bottom of a thorn-infested nullah full of rocks. He had penetrated the thorns and rocks to very bottom, and was cornered in underhand manner, with head invisible and one hand only to be seen waving for help. All the time he cried that an animal was eating through his back to his liver. I explained, plenty times that it was only thorn mischief and not animal teeth mischief. But he was same like deaf person, and still struggled and cried for mercy. With every movement the thorny branches butted the tender hind parts of his back, biting through his coat. With my knife I cut away the devastation and helped him out. He was a decayed object, with blood dropping everywhere, same as if he had been clawed by wounded leopard or jungle cat. I wiped away the sanguine gore, and brought him back to camp. The kitchen woman has attended to the wounds, and after food he lay down on my mat and temporarily departed to land of nod, in which locality he still remains; and I have come to report progress to master.”

“I suppose he lost himself in the jungle. I wonder what he was doing there?” said Benacre.

The Paddybird drew a little nearer and lowered his voice.

“I think he had been watching the Kurumba’s cave. He is plenty spiteful against that man; but what can do with those kind of magicians? All day long he followed him and sat near his cave at night. In the morning, before it was light, a bat flew against him. It passed from his neck down to the ground, and scratched his back in its fall same as the other scratched his face. He tried to fight it away, but it stayed always behind him. He moved to side and bat followed. He walked down the path towards the village, and it flew in his face. He turned and ran up the hill, and its wings flapped over his eyes and blinded him. In the dark he could not see. He became funked and cut it, running through the jungle in topsy-turvy manner, same like demented madcap, until he came to roost in bed of thorns at bottom of nullah. A long time he lay prone, too plenty frightened to get up, calling and crying for help.”

“It is a very strange tale,” said Benacre, when he had heard his servant’s story. “Ramayan is not the man to be easily alarmed, especially by such a harmless thing as a bat.”

“A bat is not a nice bird, sir. It has sharp teeth and a close touch. Its wings catch on like wet cloths and hold fast by their hooks.”

“At any rate it is not dangerous; it is only unpleasant. I can’t believe that he was attacked in the face, can you?”

“It is impossible to say, sir.”

“One may have fallen upon him or blundered against him. It is probable that in the dark he touched some large leaf wet with dew and he thought it was the bat. Thorns may have accounted for the scratches throughout his adventure.”

The Paddybird’s voice became a degree or two more confidential and mysterious as he said, almost in a whisper—

“I think this is the Kurumba’s doing. He makes magic and puts funk into the tracker’s heart. Ramayan told me that all the time he was heltering and skeltering through the jungle, now up and now down, he believed that he felt the bat clawing and eating into his back. When I got up to him he still fought with his hands, as if he would beat off something that would hurt him. That Kurumba too clever. Even now, as Ramayan lies in arms of Nod, he moves as if he would fight away a scratching, biting beast.”

“You think that he is bewitched,” said Benacre, with a smile he could not repress.

The Paddybird caught the smile, and replied rather warmly—

“I can’t tell. I think this very bad business for the tracker. We may anger a leopard or a tiger, and tease a snake; we know what they will do; but when we anger a magician, especially if he be born in Malabar, we can’t guess what may happen. It is not good to meddle with the unknown. People who eat strange fruits get very bad stomach-aches.”

Benacre laughed and dismissed his servant with an injunction to look after the tracker and attend to his wounds.

Chapter XX

Divination

The Assistant Superintendent ordered his pony to be saddled immediately after lunch on the following day. It was a relief to the Paddybird to know that his master would be absent during the afternoon. A free field was thus left for the Kurumba, and there was less fear of interruption. The cook had no desire to keep the matter secret. In case his master should return sooner than he was expected, he thought it advisable to mention the fact that the Kurumba intended to pay a visit to the camp.

“Your honour will remember a few days ago, how the Inspector was taken sick and prevented from going down to Pothanur to give evidence in favour of the Kurumba?”

“Yes. By-the-bye, I ought to have enquired into the matter; but, as the Kurumba got off all right, it slipped my mind. Have you discovered anything?”

“No, sir. I made plenty of enquiry, with proper cross-examination, same like magistrate; but nothing so far has transpired. No clue has been discovered.”

Benacre repressed a smile as he listened to the familiar police language that often passed between himself and his Inspectors and head constables.

“Have you any suspicion?” he asked.

“Yes, sir; but I am not at present prepared to say what it is. I am keeping all the camp people under close observation myself.”

“All! You don’t suspect all! The two lascars and the syce can’t have had anything to do with the poisoning of the Inspector. They have no duties in the kitchen.”

“It does not do for the head-boy or butler of any Government official to show favour,” replied the cook, with dignity. “It would make ill-feeling. Therefore I let them see that I watch all alike. Even the village people who bring milk and vegetables daily from the bazaar, have asked to be put under supervision. They always show their baskets and the contents of their turbans and betel bags when they come and when they go.”

“What good does that do? You don’t expect any more attempts at poisoning, do you?”

“No, sir; the howling snob who tampered with the grub on that occasion is not likely to play the game again. There is no reason for such dastardly conduct.”

“Then why treat the villagers so?”

“They are greatly honoured by being included in the observation, and of themselves begged me to hold them suspicious until the matter has been cleared up,” explained the Paddybird.

He prided himself in the justice of his rule, and he wondered why his master did not understand the obligations which were forced upon him in his position as head-boy.

“I hope you are keeping your eye on the matey who brought us the coffee?”

“I have told him that as far as he is concerned I am satisfied, and that I need not do more than pretend to watch him. It is necessary to make some pretence of keeping him under observation to show the others that I make no difference. He is much eased in his mind.”

Benacre gazed at his factotum in surprise. His own suspicions had naturally fallen upon the matey who brought the coffee.

“I think you are wrong not to keep an eye upon him. He is the very man who seems to me most likely to have had a hand in it. The piece of paper you picked up by the fire must have been dropped by him or by the Poochee.”

“I can answer for the kitchen boy,” said the Paddybird, promptly.

“Then it must have been the other servant.”

“May be, sir; but your honour knows that a pot that is under the eye never boils. I can best see after the matey by excusing him of supervision. To-day the Kurumba comes to hold an inquest. It is possible that he may discover the dyed villain.”

“I hope he may. Poisoners are unpleasant people to have about one. How is the tracker to-day, better?”

“His wounds are a little better, though he still has great pain. It is nothing compared with the blue funk that fills his heart. Often he feels his liver suddenly turn to water and he shivers, asking the kitchen woman, when she is stirring about in the tent, if she sees a bat. We have told him that he lies under a curse, and have explained to him the great power of the magician. This morning I advised him to give money to the Kurumba, and beg him to remove the curse. He refused with plenty of bad words and abuse of the old man. He ordered me not to speak of the matter again, and on no account to let the Kurumba know that he was in camp.”

“What will he do this afternoon, when the old chap comes to hold the enquiry?”

“During the visit, the tracker will lie low inside the kitchen tent and hold himself strictly mum.”

“Very well,” replied Benacre, who always left his servants to manage their affairs themselves, as long as it did not interfere with his own arrangements. “If you find out anything definitely, let me know, and I will run the scoundrel in, whoever he may be. This sort of thing must not happen again. As for the tracker, feed him up and let him sleep. He is probably overworked, and all he wants is a rest. Make the servants understand that they are not to mention the name of the Kurumba before him again. Their silly talk has helped to scare him.”

The Paddybird understood that the order thus given included himself. He watched his master mount and ride away.

“To be silent about the fire will not make it burn the less,” he said, as he returned to the servants’ quarters.

At four o’clock the Kurumba appeared, bringing with him the properties that were required for his juggling. There was an open space behind the kitchen tent which served as a platform for his séance. In the middle of this he erected a kind of miniature wigwam. A soiled table cloth was borrowed from the matey, and a tripod of three sticks formed. The table-cloth was secured by some string, and a neat little tent of three feet in height was pitched. Round the wigwam he marked out a circle by dropping some white powder on to the grass.

At a distance of twenty feet, he made a square in the same manner, sufficiently large to seat the company. The auditorium was so situated that no one occupying it could see the entrance of the wigwam.

His preparations were not concluded all in a moment. As he carried out each operation, he repeated muntrums, chanting them on a particular note known only to the initiated. Occasionally there was a pause, during which he appeared to lapse into the trance state. The camp-followers let nothing escape their observation. A thrill of excitement ran through every member of the company at the introduction of each fresh piece of ritual. When he was at length ready to seat his audience, no bell nor gong was required to bring them together. The villagers, who had had the honour of being under the cook’s observation, pushed forward to claim their right to be included. They came from a small hamlet lower down the valley, and brought with them a little group of privileged relatives, attracted by the wonder-working magician. These last were accommodated with a position outside the square.

The Paddybird went to the kitchen tent, where Ramayan sat huddled in his shawl.

“It would be wise, brother, to come and watch the Kurumba. This is his proper business. There is no worshipping of jungle gods in his acts to-day. He makes magic to discover if any man in the camp put poison into the coffee drunk by the Inspector on the evening before he should have gone to Pothanur to give his testimony in favour of the Kurumba; or if the sickness was from another cause.”

“It was undoubtedly natural. The man blinds your eyes. He is a bad fellow, like his brother, and some day——”

There was a faint rustle outside the fly of the tent, like the moving of a dry leaf against the canvas. The tracker cast a frightened glance in the direction, and enquired what it was.

“It is nothing—a beetle out of the grass creeping in to smell the curry-pots, or perhaps a small lizard,” replied the Paddybird, reassuringly.

“It sounded like—— See what it is!”

The cook good-naturedly made his way through the group of pots and pans, saucepans, basins, wooden ladles and sieves that the kitchen woman had packed together, and hunted amongst them. He picked up a dry piece of palm-leaf in which some purchase from the bazaar had been wrapped, and held it out.

“It must have been this which had fallen inside one of the pots,” he said. “If you will let me speak to the Kurumba, he can cause you to forget everything that has happened in the jungle, and he can give you peace.”

“No! no! no! He can do nothing! He is a budmash, a rogue, an ignorant valluvan!” he cried vehemently. His voice changed to a tone of fretfulness as he asked what work the cook was about, and whether he could come and sit with him. “I feel better when I have company.”

“I cannot. I have much to do in helping the Kurumba. I must be present at the ordeal, as I too have to submit to the test.”

The Paddybird left the tent and ran against the matey, who was standing outside. He looked at him suspiciously, as he asked sharply—

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to find you and speak a little word for your ear only. It will not be necessary for you and me to submit to the test. We are the upper servants, and suspicion does not lie upon either of us.”

The cook shot a swift glance at his fellow servant, and after a short pause, said—

“That is a matter which rests with the Kurumba.”

“Neither you nor I would be likely to poison our master or the Inspector,” continued the matey, glibly. “If we had desired to do so, we should have done it long ago. I think it was the Inspector’s servant. Did he not say that very evening as he sat by the cooking fires that it would be well if his master fell sick; then the Inspector would go to England and give him a good character chit, with which he could get a better place?”

While the matey talked, they moved towards the spot where the Kurumba sat. His arrangements were completed, and he was ready to begin his divination. He placed his audience in two rows inside the square he had marked out. They numbered in all ten people, not counting those from the hamlet who had come out of curiosity.

When he had seated them all to his liking, he walked round the company, muttering words that they did not understand. To their heated imaginations, it seemed as though he encircled them with an invisible cord, and placed them in an invisible enclosure. To the innocent this was no more than gathering them into a shelter; but to the guilty one it was intended to suggest a prison from which there was no escape.

He went to his little improvised tent and took from it a white wand some ten inches long. This he showed to each person in turn. He explained that every individual who submitted to the ordeal would have to go to the tent and put his right hand inside. He must take hold of the wand, grasping it firmly, and retain it in his grip for the space of half a minute. Under the touch of the innocent, the wand would remain what it was, a piece of wood, and unchanged in appearance. In the hand of the guilty it would assume the shape of a deadly serpent, and writhe under his grasp. If he dropped it before the prescribed time, it would bury its poison fangs in his hand.

His hearers fully understood the instructions. Most of them had undergone similar ordeals on some previous occasion.

The Kurumba then seated himself in front of the assembly, with his back to them. The first person called upon to go to the tent and take hold of the wand was the syce. He had been chosen thus early that he might not be delayed in his departure with the lantern to meet his master on the road.

The man arose and walked with visible trepidation to the wigwam. He squatted on his heels before the opening, which was not more than two feet high. The wand lay on a piece of scarlet cloth, adorned with four yellow flowers of the gourd. There was a strong smell of sandalwood oil, which, unknown to the company, had been smeared upon the wand. His hand trembled as it was thrust through the opening. The fingers closed over the stick, and, secure in the knowledge of his innocence, he carried out the directions of the Kurumba to the letter. The stick remained firm and rigid under his touch, and did not change its form. He replaced it and returned. The magician called him to his side. He took the hand that had held the stick, and pressed it to his forehead, keeping it there for a few seconds, whilst he inhaled a deep breath through his nostrils.

“Go to your work. It is not the syce who desires to see his master sick,” said the Kurumba, releasing him.

Each one was summoned, irrespective of precedence, now the kitchen woman, now a lascar, now the cook himself. Not one was omitted. All in turn had to allow their hands to be pressed to the magician’s forehead, whereby, as they supposed, he knew all that was passing in their minds. The guilty coward, who dared not touch the wand for fear of the dreaded transformation into a snake, unwittingly brought a hand that was innocent of the scent of sandalwood oil; but this little fact even the Paddybird himself was ignorant of. More than one among the number trembled as the bony grip of the magician was felt, even though the owner of the hand presented was innocent of the crime.

The Paddybird listened for the cry of terror that should have come as the guilty one felt the scaliness and writhing of the wand turning into a snake. Not a sound was uttered, and the Kurumba gave no sign that he had discovered the culprit. The matey did not repeat his protest against submitting to the ordeal after he had seen the Paddybird walk calmly to the wigwam and return to the Kurumba, to whom he presented his hand as the rest had done. When his own turn came, he rose and moved jauntily forward without any sign of hesitation or fear. He seated himself before the opening, and thrust his hand into the tent. After the prescribed half-minute had elapsed, he withdrew it and presented it to the Kurumba. The magician went through the ritual of pressing the hand to his forehead. Apparently there was doubt, for the ceremony was repeated, the old man drawing in a deep breath through his nostrils a second time. The Paddybird watched his fellow servant closely as he left the Kurumba and returned to his place. It was whispered once or twice among the company that a discovery had been made; but when they looked for confirmation of their assertions, it was not forthcoming. The face of the magician was inscrutable, and betrayed nothing.

The last person had undergone the test, and the chattering crowd became silent in their intense expectation. All eyes were focussed upon the worker of wonders. What was he going to do next? Would he denounce the criminal, or would he say that the illness of the Inspector was the work of the gods, and not in any way due to the hand of man?

The Kurumba rose and went to the tent, which he pulled down, folding the table-cloth and laying it neatly by the side of the three sticks that had supported it. He carried the wand in his hand and advanced towards the company. One by one he called them by name and placed them in a large semi-circle with the space of a yard between each. None stood between himself and the kitchen tent.

“Ah, ha! this is to be divination by the rod,” whispered the village people, with the comfortable feeling that the programme was not going to be scamped in anyway.

He folded his hands one over the other, and passed the wand through his fingers so that it pointed outwards. It was held loosely, yet firmly enough not to slip away. He began to chant muntrums slowly and in so low a tone that they could scarcely be heard. Gradually he increased the sound and quickened his repetition.

Now the wand began to move and his body swayed from side to side as though it followed the motion of the stick involuntarily. After a while the power of the wand was sufficient to make him turn with it, and he began to gyrate as though swinging round after the wand. The movement increased until the onlookers fully expected to see him fall to the ground under the influence of giddiness. As gradually as it had increased so it decreased until it finally stopped, leaving the magician with his wand pointing to the spot where the matey stood. Before the exclamation that rose to the lips of the company could be uttered, the wand jerked round. It seemed as though the holder resisted the force that moved it, but resistance was in vain. He was overborne and obliged to turn with it in a second series of evolutions. When they ended he was left with the wand pointing directly to the tent where the tracker was hidden.

A murmur of surprise ran through the company, and the Kurumba himself appeared puzzled. He demanded of the Paddybird if all those who were in camp on the night that the Inspector was taken ill were present.

“All except Raju, the Inspector’s servant,” was the reply.

“He is innocent,” announced the Kurumba decisively.

“Is it possible that the illness was but the doing of the gods?” asked the matey in a trembling voice.

“It was the doing of an enemy, and the enemy is present here.”

The terrible words electrified the company, and the matey’s hands worked nervously behind his back as he stood in the semi-circle.

Once again the ritual was performed, and again the rod stopped before the matey for a few seconds, and then recommencing its revolutions, came to rest directly in front of the kitchen tent.

“There are two people who have had a part in this deed. One is the man who washes dishes for his master and trims the lamps. He carried the coffee to the Inspector that evening, having himself put in the poison.”

There was a chorus of “Ah! bah!” and all eyes were fastened upon the unfortunate matey, who was showing signs of collapse. His jaunty air was gone; his dark complexion lost its warm, mahogany brown tint and turned to a black-grey. His knees trembled, and in the face of the assembly he fell to the ground, grovelling at the feet of the man who accused him.

“Swami! swami!” he cried abjectly.

“Speak I not the truth?” asked the terrible voice above him.

“It is the truth, swami! I put something in the soup that evening; and when it was upset, I put a second powder into the coffee.”

“Why did you want to make the Inspector sick? He has never done you any harm,” demanded his inquisitor, sternly.

“Aiyoh! I did not think to make him sick when I gave him the powder.”

“What was your intention, if it was not to poison him?”

“Swami, be patient with me, and I will tell you all. I did not give the medicine to make him sick. A woman came to the camp that morning and sold me a philtre that she said would cause hate to rise up in the heart of the Inspector and our master against Raju, and they would drive him away from their presence in disgrace.”

“Why did you desire to breed hate against the Inspector’s servant?”

“Because he played me false with his daughter. He promised to give her to me in marriage; but when the cook offered more money than I could raise, he took it, bidding me to look elsewhere for a wife. Therefore I wished to make ill-will between him and his master, so that he might be dismissed with shame and without a character chit. Pardon, swami! Pardon, for your vile dog!”

His voice died away from faintness induced by sheer terror. He was prepared to receive nothing less than a withering curse, which should blight his existence for ever. He knew, too late, how his action had caused trouble for the Kurumba that might have ended in a long spell of imprisonment, perhaps worse. The affair had been thoroughly discussed in the camp. He deserved punishment, and was aware of the form in which such men as the Kurumba dealt it out to those who offended. He waited prostrate for the blow to fall. It did not come. He could scarcely believe his ears as the mild accents of the Kurumba reached them.

“You have spoken the truth. You are a fool! You have no more sense than the bullock. Like a bullock with a rope through its nose you have been led just where another pleased.”

Suddenly his calmness left him, and he turned from the matey. With uplifted hand he pointed to the tent and cried passionately—

“There! there is the man who worked evil to the Inspector! He lies there! His heart is like a ball of fire; his liver melts to water! his strength is gone! The magic wand tells true. It was his doing. He sent the woman to trick this fool with her philtres. He thought to shut the mouth of the Inspector by sickness; but the thin line of lightning that runs without thunder brought the message, and the ticking devil told it to the clerks who listen always for its voice; and thus the Kurumba of the cave was not proclaimed a murderer with his brother. Uneasy he lies, and uneasiness shall be his portion. Wherever he creeps to hide, there shall another creep to disturb him—a small, smooth, soft thing no bigger than my hand, which he shall fear more than the stag fears the leopard. I have said it. He is cursed by my decree through the gods I worship!”

Every word fell distinctly upon the ears of the assembly; they were equally audible to the angry, shivering man inside the tent. There were whispered enquiries from the villagers as to the identity of the unfortunate recipient of the Kurumba’s maledictions. When they learned that it was none other than the renowned tracker, Ramayan, they shuddered. It was known how he held the Kurumba in contempt, and how freely he had levelled abuse at the worker of spells. The hermit of the cave was a lover of peace, and not given to take offence; but when once his wrath was roused, his revenge was terrible. In twos and threes they stole away that they might carry the news to their neighbours, and talk over the wonderful things that had happened. There remained only the matey, the Paddybird and the magician.

“Swami, what punishment is to be given to this man?” asked the cook.

“Let him be fined. His fault is stupidity, a stupidity that might have cost me my liberty but for the justice of the Englishman. A fine is sufficient where there is no wickedness, but only folly.”

“Swami! I will pay a big fine, as much as half my month’s pay. I will place it in the cook’s hands, and he will give it to your Excellency,” whined the matey in a trembling voice, scarcely daring to believe in his good fortune after listening to the terrible curse laid upon the man whose tool he had been.

The sun had set. A red glow suffused the valley. The thick tropical foliage took deep shadows, and the hills darkened to a rich brown purple. The rippling water in the stream below the camp shone with silvery whiteness, streaked here and there with rosy lights caught from the western sky.

The Kurumba approached still nearer to the kitchen tent. He repeated a muntrum rapidly, ending with a guttural note that seemed to be nothing less than an inarticulate expression of concentrated hatred. Then, raising his hand, he cast a handful of light fluttering fragments over the roof of the tent. As if by magic, bats appeared in the air. To the vivid imagination of the two men who looked on, the night was full of them. They issued from the deep purple shadows and circled over the tent, uttering their piercing notes and beating their leathery wings against the canvas in their endeavours to snatch up the morsels.

From inside the tent came a startled exclamation. The Kurumba heard it. His countenance was aflame with triumph, and he turned away. In another moment he had vanished into the gathering darkness.

Chapter XXI

The Working of the Spell

The morning after the Kurumba’s visit, the cook, in a clean white coat and a black embroidered cap, stood at Benacre’s elbow. The Assistant Superintendent had just finished breakfast. It was the Paddybird’s custom to go to his master twice a day for orders, before the business of the day was begun in the office and again after dinner, when orders for the saddling of the horse in the early morning were given.

“In three days’ time I shall return to head-quarters. We are late in getting back this year,” he said, as he struck a match and lighted his cigar.

“Yes, sir; two troubles happening this time. First my fever sickness, and then the rain when master nearly starving.”

“I should have been on short commons if you hadn’t shot that hare.”

The Paddybird gave a short cough behind his hand, and made no reply. His master continued—

“You will have to go on ahead, and leave the matey and the Poochee to pack up and bring in the camp things.”

There was a little discussion about the details of breaking up the camp, and then the Paddybird plunged into the business of the previous day.

“I am sorry to have to tell master and make complaint, but must speak true word only. That matey has been behaving badly.”

“What has he been doing?”

“He put some stuff into the coffee that evening the Inspector was sick.”

“What! the matey?” said Benacre. “I would not have believed him capable of doing such a thing. How did you discover it?”

“The Kurumba found it out with his magic wand. It came like thunder-clap upon us. The matey was dumb at first with flabbergaster. Then he fell at the feet of the Kurumba and confessed all.”

“What was his object in trying to poison us?”

“He never thought to poison or to make the Inspector and master sick. A woman visited the camp in the morning. She asked for a drink of water, which the matey gave her. She told him that she was a medicine woman, very clever in the ’facture of powders to make people love or hate others. He bought a powder to give your honours that evening, so that there would be hate against Raju, the Inspector’s boy. The woman let him have two in case one failed.”

“Why did he want to make us hate Raju?”

“For spite, sir. Black people usually very spiteful and very stupid. Raju promised the matey something and then unpromised it, and that made the matey plenty spiteful. One powder he put in the soup, the other he mixed in the coffee. I suspicioned that there was some humbug-making that evening, and so I upset the soup. Then I tried to upset the coffee; but, as master knows, the Inspector was too quick.”

“What made you think that there would be trickery?”

“This way often done to hold back witnesses. Ramayan was very angry against the Kurumba, and wanted to put him in prison; therefore, I look out for humbug. I think the tracker sent that woman to the camp, and she fooled our matey.”

“Where is the tracker?”

“He is still in camp, feeling very sick. I never said one word to the Kurumba about his being in the tent, but the magic stick pointed that way, and told that he was there. After the matey had made humble submission and cried on bended knees, the man of the cave walked up to the tent and laid a big curse on the tracker. It was a bad curse. The tracker heard it, and it put fresh funk into his heart. The function was so great that when I went inside after the Kurumba was gone, I found him lying on the ground like deceased. I poured water on him and gave him some whisky, and he opened his eyes with much groaning. He is better this morning, though still shaking like old age person.”

Benacre was concerned to hear the account given of the tracker. He might have his prejudices, but the man was a valuable servant to the Force, indefatigable in his work, which, from its nature, put a great strain upon the nervous system. It involved often no ordinary physical fatigue, and it kept the brain always working.

“He had better leave this neighbourhood and go back to Pothanur as soon as we can get him off. He ought to take three months’ leave, and have a good rest, then he will soon forget all about the old man’s juggling tricks. I’ll come and see him presently and tell him so.”

“No use meddling with these magic-men, sir,” observed the Paddybird, with a show of superior wisdom.

Benacre glanced at him with sudden enlightenment.

“Have you been telling the tracker that the Kurumba is working spells against him?”

“Yes, sir; we all tell him how strong the Kurumba is, and how he can make people sick or mad or shaking like old age.”

“I thought I forbade you to mention the man in his presence?”

“For one time only, sir. Afterwards, when the Kurumba came, everybody talked. It was like the cawing of the crows, and no one could stop it. The milkman told him about a man who lived in Ellapuram. He got drunk and abused the Kurumba, calling him a sweeper and a shoe-maker. A bad spell was laid upon him. Wherever he went he saw a small poochee like a black ant creeping. When he sat down or stood still, the poochee came towards him. If it reached him, it hid in his clothes and stung him. Sometimes it was on his head and neck; once he found one biting between his toes. At night, when he slept, the poochee crawled down his throat, and he could feel it biting his liver. Another night it crept up his nose and bit behind his eyes and forehead until he could neither sleep nor rest. Whether it was in the day or in the night he was always troubled, and had no peace. At last he could bear it no longer. He ran into the river and was drowned.”

“What an absurd story! It was the man’s fancy. He was what we call in England out of his mind, and it was probably caused by drinking,” said Benacre.

“I can’t say, sir. The milkman said that when his body was found, three days later, it was covered with black poochees.”

“All I can say is that if it was the Kurumba’s doing he deserves to be punished; but I don’t believe it was his work.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Very peculiar undermining people, these Malabar magicians. It may not be an act, same like I do with my hand; it may be only thoughts that run about like common herd servants doing business without order. The heathen villagers say that it is bad to anger the gods, and that it is still worse to offend the servants of the gods. The village gods are evil, as master knows; and where the master is evil, the servants are plenty too much worse. Therefore we all telling that tracker that he is a very foolish man to anger the Kurumba, and that the Kurumba has put a spell on him, as he put a spell on the man who was hunted by black poochees. Ramayan is getting plenty frightful, and beginning to believe. His knees and his liver are turning to water, and he no longer abuses the Kurumba.”

“Send for the Kurumba, and I will talk to him and tell him that he mustn’t have these thoughts.”

“No good to speak to him. It will only make bad things worse. Thoughts are like birds that come out of the eggs. Once they are flown, no one can catch them and put them back. Better send Ramayan away, far away, where the Kurumba’s thoughts cannot reach him. By-and-bye they will die, as the Kurumba forgets to think them.”

Benacre knew that the advice was good, and that it was useless to interfere where there was no tangible deed to lay hold of. The Kurumba was working upon the imagination of his enemy, and the camp followers, from the cook downwards, were unconsciously assisting him.

“Very well, I will not interfere with the old jungle man. I’ll try my hand at curing the tracker of his fancies. By the way, what is it that frightens him?”

“A bat. Wherever he goes he sees or hears a bat. Sometimes it crawls in the grass, sometimes it flies in the air; but, wherever it is, it always comes towards him, as the black poochees crept towards the villager of Ellapuram. He knows about this, for we have told him.”

“I’m afraid you have frightened the man between you.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the Paddybird, with the self-satisfaction of one who is conscious that he has done his duty to his neighbour.

“You are a set of idiots; that’s what you are!” said Benacre; impatiently.

“Yes, sir,” said the Paddybird, placidly.

His master was justly entitled to call his servants what he pleased, since he paid them their wages regularly, and treated them fairly.

A little later Benacre went across to the kitchen tent. He found Ramayan lying on a mat shivering as though he had ague. He felt his skin. It was cool, and there was no sign of fever. That the tracker was in a highly nervous state bordering on hysteria was evident. His eyes rolled as if he were keeping an anxious watch for some dread object. At the smallest noise he started. He was constantly feeling with his hands along the edge of the mat, and under and round the pillow upon which his head lay.

The Poochee and the kitchen woman stood near with commiseration upon their faces. They knew what the prostrate man dreaded. The matey, subdued and humbled, hid himself from his master’s sight, still fearing punishment in some form or other, over and above what had already been decreed. Dismissal, a beating, or even a taste of prison might yet be his fate. The Paddybird stood beside Benacre as he gazed at the prostrate man in perplexity.

“He looks as if he would die, sir,” remarked the cook, critically, and without lowering his voice. “When death is near people shake in their limbs as he is now shaking. At any moment the bat might creep in under the fly of the tent and suck his blood!”

The tracker understood English, and he shuddered at the suggestion. The Poochee and the kitchen woman uttered an assenting grunt.

“Shuh! don’t talk such nonsense!” cried Benacre, sharply. “Bats don’t suck people’s blood.”

“Perhaps not in England, sir; but in India——”

“Oh, shut up, Paddybird!” exclaimed the Assistant Superintendent in exasperation. “Don’t you see that you are terrifying the man with your talk?”

The cook made a protest against what he considered an unjust accusation.

“It is our custom, sir, to speak openly. Besides, what good will silence do where all is known? One cannot hide the frying of an onion.”

Benacre knelt down by the sick man’s side and laid his hand upon his shoulder. His touch was reassuring to the patient, who groaned.

“You must leave the camp, Ramayan, and go back to your house, where you can be properly looked after.”

The tracker shook his head with dissent.

“It is impossible.”

“I tell you it is absolutely necessary that you should have rest. This breakdown is the result of working too hard. Night and day you have been following criminals, giving yourself no rest. You should apply for leave, and take three months down on the plains.”

“I have work in hand which I must do.”

“No one can work if he is ill. You tell me what you want, and I will set my men on the track of it.”

“It is the importation of arms. There is reason to believe that they are being imported from Bombay, and they are sent down South in small quantities at a time. They are deposited somewhere in the jungle on the Western Ghats to wait for a favourable opportunity of carrying them into the State.”

“I have already received a communication on the subject. Is it known what means are being used to transport them?”

“They are borne by Lumbadees, the people who speak an unknown language. Sometimes they are called gipsies by the English gentlemen who——”

He stopped suddenly in his explanation, and glanced towards the side of the tent.

“Something moves and creeps in the grass just outside. It tries to get in under the canvas. Please, sir, have it taken away.”

“What is it?” asked Benacre, replacing the hand that he had just removed from the tracker’s shoulder.

“It sounds like a bat.”

Benacre turned to the Paddybird.

“The tent is very close and dark with all the flies down. Call a lascar and tell him to roll them up.”

“The tracker asked to have them down.”

“They can be lowered by-and-bye; but we will have a little light and air in now,”

In a few minutes the sides of the tent were lifted, and the sunlight streamed in. Benacre ordered the Poochee to move the pots and cooking utensils and carry them outside. The only living creature discovered was a large stag-beetle that had concealed itself under a piece of brown paper. As it crawled it made a rustling sound with its horny feet.

“You see what it is,” said Benacre to the tracker, rising to his feet. “You were quite right in thinking there was something alive there, but it was not a bat.”

The Assistant Superintendent did not share the belief of his servants that the Kurumba had cast a spell over the man; but he was quite aware of the mischief that might be caused through the suggestion. Instead of ridiculing his weakness, he endeavoured to restore him to his normal state by a little common-sense reasoning. Nature had endowed the tracker with plenty of self-assurance. He had received a good education, although he had not passed any of the higher Government examinations. He read newspapers published in English and in the vernacular, and a certain number of books containing modern thought and philosophy. He was in no way attracted to Christianity, which had too many limitations for his subtle mind; but he had broken away from the old heathenism of his forefathers. He spoke contemptuously of the superstitions that held them enchained. Where caste was concerned, he was orthodox and conservative, and was ready to take his part in the observance of the religious duties prescribed by it.

Where they were merely the expression of superstition, he despised them. Under the influence of this vague spirit of scepticism, he held the Kurumba in contempt, and classed his inexplicable manifestations as knavish tricks.

Had he not returned to the district he might possibly have retained this opinion. He had deliberately come back into the zone of the Kurumba’s influence with the intention of hunting the man down and convicting him of breaking the law in one respect or another. The influence was apparent in every man with whom the tracker was brought into contact. Even the Paddybird himself, whose forebears had abjured heathenism three hundred years ago, believed in the occult powers of the Kurumba, and feared him proportionately. It was little to be wondered at that the tracker should feel the stirring of the old inherited credulousness, and in his nervous exhaustion find that the new scepticism of modern education was in danger of being undermined.

“Get up, Ramayan, and come to the office tent,” said Benacre, in a tone that was business-like and reassuring. “I want your advice about a case of robbery that I have in hand. I should like to know what you think about it.”

“I am not feeling well, and my knees are weak. I have a pain in my head, and would rather lie here,” was the reply.

Ramayan was not altogether easy in his mind. He remembered the part that he had played in the drugging of the Inspector, and feared reproach and perhaps a threat of punishment for his irregularity. Benacre would not take a refusal, and there was something in his tone which was reassuring; it set the tracker’s fears at rest.

“The fresh air and sunlight will do you a lot of good. I am not very busy to-day, and I should like to talk over this case. Here, Paddybird, help Ramayan to get up; and when he is out of the tent, shake the mat and blanket, and have them put in the sun. Call the kitchen woman to sweep the ground, and tell the lascars to cut the grass quite short round the tent.”

While he talked the tracker rose with the assistance of the cook. The wounds caused by the thorns had closed and were less painful, but the unfortunate man was not a happy sight. His face still bore the mark of the bat, and it was freshly scored by his fall at the bottom of the ravine. He looked ill and haggard, and his eyes wore an expression that may be seen in the eyes of a hunted animal.

Benacre moved away, leaving him to arrange his clothing and to put on a clean khaki coat, borrowed from the Assistant Superintendent’s own wardrobe. Ten minutes later Ramayan was seated in a chair under the shade of the open fly of the office tent. Benacre sat near him, lighting a cigar.

It required a little patience to persuade Ramayan to talk, but the Englishman prevailed in the end. The papers relating to the case mentioned were brought out and placed on a table within reach. Gradually the attention of the tracker was fixed, and he forgot everything, including the soreness of his wounds, in the contemplation of the details of the robbery. He asked questions, read and re-read the head constable’s reports, and carefully considered every point. He caught at the merest trifle here and a chance thread there, rejecting this and assimilating that, till Benacre, marvelling at the subtlety of his mind, saw the mystery laid bare.

“You will find, sir, that the robbery was committed some time before it was discovered, or rather, made known to the master of the house who has communicated with the police. Probably the younger wife, who is accused of the robbery, has a lover.”

“And she has stolen the jewels for him?”

“No; she probably knows nothing about them. The elder wife, with the connivance of the mother-in-law, has taken the opportunity of making away with them to get the younger woman into trouble. There is jealousy on the part of the elder. The co-wife has been too clever to allow herself to be caught with her lover up to the present, so the women have taken this means of disgracing her and of getting rid of her. Their victim, in fear of being found out in the other matter, behaves as if she were guilty. You will probably find the jewels buried near the kitchen under a refuse heap. They will be wrapped in a portion of some article of wearing-apparel that is known to be her exclusive property. On the discovery of the jewels in the incriminating piece of cloth, she will become so frightened that she will run away to the man who has attracted her, and will compromise him. Or the other women may terrify her into a false confession of guilt. The best plan will be to arrest the younger woman at once and remove her from their influence, which will prevent any rash act upon her part. The wife and mother-in-law will then begin to accuse the younger one falsely. Their examination separately will soon convict them out of their own mouths. When they find that their tale is not believed, each will try to save herself by accusing the other of conspiracy, and so you will have the whole case in a nutshell. There is nothing so dear to the heart of the women of this country as a little conspiracy of this land, especially if it leads to the downfall of a young and arrogant favourite in the household.”

Benacre listened with absorbing interest as his companion disentangled the threads of the story and sketched out its probable issue. As Ramayan talked, warming in his subject to the exclusion of all other thought, his voice grew firmer; the hands ceased from trembling; and the scared expression faded from his eyes. Apart from having gained some useful hints, Benacre was satisfied that his morning had been well spent. He believed that he had effected a complete cure of the disordered nerves as far as was possible with such an exhausted frame. All that was needed now was to avoid the mention of the Kurumba in the presence of the tracker, and to prevent the foolish conversation of the servants from coming to his ears. This was best effected by keeping the man with him.

The midday meal was served in the office tent. After it was eaten Ramayan’s confidence was restored, his fears vanished, and if he thought of the Kurumba at all, it was with his old contempt.

Chapter XXII

The Tracker’s Quest

When the Paddybird announced at four o’clock in the afternoon that the flies of the kitchen tent had been let down and that it was ready for the reception of the tracker, he was told by his master to bring the mat and blanket placed at the service of Ramayan into the office tent. Having so effectually restored his confidence, it would be simple madness to allow him to return to the spot where he fancied he heard the crawling bats. After Benacre had given his orders at a discreet distance from the spot where his guest sat, he said—

“Now look here, Paddybird. I forbid you or any of the servants to speak about the Kurumba again to the tracker, or to mention his name in his hearing. You have worked upon him with your tales until you have made him believe that he lies under a spell woven by the Kurumba——”

“It is true, sir. The Kurumba——”

“Nonsense!”

The Paddybird in his eagerness to justify himself was not to be silenced.

“The Kurumba has worked magic so that the tracker will see or hear or feel bats everywhere. What is truth cannot be hidden. Calling an onion a mango and serving it in a dessert dish will not make it a mango.”

“Serving up goat’s flesh in a silver dish and calling it mutton will not make it mutton; yet there may be wisdom in not speaking of it by its true name. I forbid you to mention the subject before the tracker again.”

The Paddybird snapped his eyes. For once he was bested in his master’s apt response, which, to give Benacre his due, had no personal meaning in it. If his cook used goat’s flesh and called it mutton, he had not discovered it. The Paddybird, feeling himself on dangerous ground, considered it wise to keep a discreet silence. He contented himself with returning the customary polite answer.

“Very well, sir. As master pleases.”

“I shall not leave the camp at all this afternoon,” continued Benacre. “I intend sending Ramayan back to Pothanur by the night mail. Have some curry and rice ready in good time, so that he may be able to take food before he starts.”

The cook remained, and did not take these directions as final. There was something else he wished to discuss. Benacre glanced at him with enquiry in his eye.

“Is master allowing Ramayan to go without saying one word about the woman who sold the medicine to the matey? The tracker sent her to persuade that fool-matey to buy and give the poison stuff, knowing that neither the Inspector nor your honour could go and give evidence if the medicine was put in the food.”

“Have you any proof that she was sent by Ramayan?”

“No, sir.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know. She was going to the coast. She may be in Bombay or she may be gone to Colombo.”

“Did you see her?”

“No, sir.”

“Would the matey recognize her?”

“Can’t say, sir. I think he would be too plenty frightened. Very stupid old man, that.”

“Then we had better let the matter drop, especially as Inspector Hillary wishes it to be dropped.”

In Benacre’s opinion Ramayan had suffered sufficiently in his nerves without adding to his trouble. He was a valuable officer who could not be easily replaced. It would be inadvisable to worry him by bringing an accusation that could not be proved without the woman. Even if she were forthcoming, there would still be the probability that she would not betray him. The administration of philtres is a common practice among orientals. Benacre knew this fact, and was inclined to believe that it was quite possible that the woman had no ulterior motive but to supply the foolish servant with what he desired.

“With the Kurumba the matter cannot be dropped. It has been arranged that the matey shall pay a fine,” said the cook.

“Does the matey know of the arrangement?”

“Yes, sir; he has agreed to place half his month’s pay in the hands of the Kurumba.”

“That’s all right. I hope it will square matters, and that we shall have no more trouble of the kind.”

“Shall I dismiss the man and look for another matey?”

“There is no necessity. I don’t believe that he intended to do any real harm. He is a good servant, and goes about his work quietly in camp and at headquarters. Let him stay. To-morrow I will advance the money, and you can go with him to the old man’s cave and see that the fine is properly paid. I shall be out all day, so you will have time for the expedition.”

At sunset the evening meal prepared for Ramayan was served in the office tent. Benacre took a chair outside, leaving his guest to eat his supper by himself, according to the custom of the East. He took care to keep a watchful eye upon the servants. He did not trust their reticence, even though he had issued orders on the subject; and he feared that even a whisper or a look might revive the nervous tension.

When the meal was ended Varadia, the village constable of Ellapuram, was summoned. He received his instructions, and was duly cautioned. Naturally a silent man, he had no temptation to gossip like the domestic servants, and Benacre had no fear that his orders would be disobeyed by the jungle-reared peon.

The Assistant Superintendent walked part of the way to the station with Ramayan. They passed by a winding path through a bit of thin jungle and out on to the cart-road that led westward to the sea coast.

There was a red glow down low on the horizon where the sun had set. Filmy clouds lay in rosy streaks across the grey-green sky, telling of coming wind. The stars above the purple hills in the east shone out in their points of silvery light. A brooding cloud in the south lifted its rounded head above the mountains. Its edges were tinged with crimson. Threads of lightning ran in crinkled streams over the mass of grey vapour, varied by an occasional illuminating flash of hidden electricity. It was a herald of the approaching monsoon.

As they emerged from the forest a large bat that had been hawking moths upon the branches of a flowering shrub at the edge of the jungle, swooped down towards them. The whispering rustle peculiar to the skinny wings was distinctly audible as it circled for a few moments above their heads. The tracker started violently, and raised his hand to protect his face. Benacre made a vigorous stroke at the bat with his stick, and the creature flew away, uttering its discordant shriek.

“It was nothing,” he said reassuringly. “There are numbers of bats among the hills where moths are so plentiful. The clefts in the rocks give them shelter. The rock snakes prey upon them; but even with the depredations of the snakes, there are numbers of bats left. If it were not for the birds and the bats, the caterpillars would eat up all the green stuff on the mountains, and we should not have a leaf left.”

The tracker did not reply. Presently Benacre returned to the subject of the jewel robbery, on which he had been speaking before the appearance of the bat. Although Ramayan had shown himself to be so deeply interested, the effort to revive the interest was unsuccessful. The tracker remained silent and preoccupied, and Benacre was disturbed to observe his distraction. He walked further than he had intended, hoping to establish the man’s self-possession. If it could be maintained for the next twelve hours, he felt sure that the nervousness would not return, and that he would forget the very existence of the Kurumba in the excitement of his legitimate work. He knew Ramayan to be an enthusiast in his profession. Once out of reach of the credulous villagers and camp servants with their tales, he would be himself again.

Benacre called to Varadia, who carried a lantern and a stick. With the latter the constable beat upon the road at regular intervals, after the custom of the night traveller in the East.

“Keep just in front of the tracker, so that he walks close behind you. The moon will be up soon, and then you will have plenty of light. Are you coming back to-night or to-morrow morning?”

“To-night, sir.”

“You are not afraid of being on the road alone after dark?”

“No, sir; there is nothing down here that can do any harm, unless one treads on a snake. With this stick, such an accident is not likely.”

He lifted his iron-bound staff and struck the ground. It rang out with a sharp metallic sound, a warning to all reptiles to get out of the way.

Benacre bade Ramayan good-night, and once again urged him to apply for leave and take a rest.

Varadia trudged along the road in silence for an hour. Except for a distant jackal or shy owl, no sound broke the stillness of the night. The mountains were shrouded in deep shadow, and the trees that overhung the winding road looked black against the starlit sky. Now and then the distant roar of the torrent tumbling over its rocky bed towards the river reached their ears.

Occasionally Ramayan glanced to the right or left with the habitual observation that was his second nature. The voice of the jackal and shriek of the owl were sufficiently familiar not to startle him. Sometimes a pale moth waltzed through the still close air and crossed his path. It sailed away into the foliage by the roadside unmolested, and was lost in the dimness of the night. The equanimity of the man returned as he walked, and his tread became firm and confident once more. With each mile the influence of the Kurumba seemed to weaken, and when a bat presently fluttered for a moment in the flickering light of Varadia’s lantern, the tracker’s pulse did not quicken. The lights of the station were in view. As they drew near the entrance of the station compound, a voice greeted Varadia out of the darkness by the side of the road. The constable held up his light so that it illuminated the figure of the stranger. He wore the uniform of the police force.

“You are just the man I want,” cried the strange constable. “Can you tell me where Ramayan the tracker is to be found?”

“I am here,” answered the tracker for himself,

“This is lucky! I have news for you, and an order written by our chief at Pothanur. We have heard that——”

Ramayan checked the words with a gesture, and turned to Varadia.

“You can go; you need not wait. This man is a constable from my district. Tell the Assistant Superintendent that you left me with him, and that we were hurrying to the station together to catch the train.”

“Very good, sir,” replied the police peon, with the customary unquestioning acquiescence to all directions given by a superior.

Without another word, Varadia set off on his homeward journey. The two men stood for a while listening to the measured beat of his staff upon the road. They watched the swinging point of light from the lantern until it was lost in the distance, and they were assured that he had no intention of spying upon them.

“What is your hews?” asked Ramayan, eagerly, as they walked slowly towards the station.

“It is written here, in this letter; but I can tell you what it is. It is known for certain that five hundred rifles left Poona for the South. They were brought by rail part of the way. They have been traced into Malabar, but no further, and it is supposed that they have been carried into the mountains. The police of this district have received instructions to make a search; but if you can discover the arms without their assistance, it will bring honour to our district and a reward for yourself. It is known for certain that the Lumbadees have been employed as carriers. There is less talk among them than among the hill people who live in the villages.”

The news stirred Ramayan, and awoke the sleuth hound in him. He was eager for the chase and longing to be upon their tracks. He sat down by the wayside near the gate of the station compound. The constable lighted a small lamp that he carried, and by its light the tracker deciphered the letter that had been sent. It confirmed the story of the police peon, adding a few more details, and it requested Ramayan to lose no time in setting out on the search. Money in notes was enclosed, more than sufficient to serve for the maintenance of the two men.

The night mail, with its cow-catcher and its caged chimney, its shower of sparks scattered upon the night air, and its clouds of white steam, glided into the station. The crowded third-class carriages discharged a portion of their contents, and took in a fresh consignment. The European passengers had lowered the Venetian shutters of their compartments, and were already half asleep on their couches. Native vendors of fruit and milk paraded the platform, calling their wares. The caste waterman, with his dewy earthenware pot, distributed water to high and low caste indiscriminately.

The trains in India are few and far between in the remote country districts. There is no necessity for haste as long as the time-table is not grossly abused. At the end of fifteen minutes, the signal was given, and the long string of fire-carriages with the noise and bustle of excited humanity, passed on into the darkness of the hills, like a big dragon breathing out fire and steam upon the tropical forest.

With the departure of the train the station lights were extinguished, and the officials went to their homes for the delayed evening meal. A bullock-cart, in which a party of natives had travelled down to the station, moved slowly away. Ramayan called out of the darkness to the driver, and asked where he had come from. From a place up the valley beyond Ellapuram, was the reply; but before returning he was going into the village near the station to a chuttrum to rest and feed his cattle. He intended to start at sunrise, he said. The man recognized them as policemen, and showed no desire to stop and talk. They let him go without further parley.

At half-past three in the morning the cart set out, carrying a native shikari and his attendant, who had arrived at the rest-house late that night. The avowed object of the hunter was the trapping of birds and small animals for the sake of their feathers and furs. His property consisted of a cage or two containing decoy avadavats, a large game bag, some snares of copper wire, and a supply of bird-lime.

The cart reached its destination at sunrise. The shikari and his assistant got out, and the cartman was paid the price agreed upon, with the addition of a present for himself.

“If any of the police people ask questions about your fares do not tell them my business. Say that you brought up a money-lender or cloth merchant who was passing on to Ootacamund.”

“I will say that my cart returned empty. No one has seen you on the road, and I can safely tell that tale.”

“That is well,” replied Ramayan, who desired to convince the driver that he was what he represented himself to be. “Are many people passing over the hills just now?” he asked, making a show of anxiety lest he should encounter inquisitive strangers.

“Many Lumbadees have lately gone South carrying sandalwood from Mysore.”

“This way is not the shortest to the South,” remarked the tracker.

“It is the best and safest for some goods,” replied the cartman, with a laugh. “They were hurrying because they said the breaking of the monsoon was near at hand. You need not fear them. They will not report you to the police; they are too anxious to keep out of the way of the police themselves.”

“The tongues of the Lumbadees are silent. They talk not with the police nor with the villagers on the road. It is the Englishmen who object to the killing of the birds and beasts.”

“The Lumbadees give themselves no time to chatter of other men’s affairs. It is late for the carrying of sandalwood, and they hurry with their bundles, taking short cuts through the jungle.”

“Who has ordered the sandalwood?”

“The Rajah in the South.”

“Is it far to Doorgapet?” asked Ramayan, by way of supporting his character as a stranger.

“It is half a day’s journey. There are two ways of getting there through the jungle. One is by passing through the village of Ellapuram and turning off into the forest. In that case you must cross the river by the bridge. The police station stands on the other side of the bridge, and the peons will ask your business, though they have no written order from Government to stop travellers. If it is at night, they will fine a cartman who is going round by the road for having no light. The other way is more difficult to find. Follow up this road and enter the jungle near a large rock. You will easily see the path. It will lead you down to the river, which you can cross by stepping-stones when the stream is not in flood. From there it is a steep climb. The Peak stands on your right and the path circles round it on the left. Shall I get a fresh pair of bulls and take you on by the cart-road?”

“We would begin our bird-catching at once. It is said down the valley that the birds are plentiful in these jungles, as they are so seldom disturbed.”

“That is a true word,” remarked the cartman. “None but the Lumbadees use this path. It is too steep for cattle, so the men carry the loads themselves. They are stronger than their own bullocks, though the bullocks of the Lumbadees can climb like goats.”

“Is the sandalwood smuggled?” asked the assistant.

“Who knows?” replied the cartman, with a careless laugh. “That is not my business, nor is my business with the salt that they bring back by these mountain paths. I buy their salt for my bullocks at a cheaper price than I can get it down the valley; but I do not tell that to the police. If they ask questions I make great complaint of the high price charged by the Government at the salt cottaurs where it is made.”

Ramayan and his companion joined in the laugh, and the former remarked—

“The police think themselves very clever, but they don’t know everything.”

“Whereas we know everything about the police,” chuckled the cartman. “There were two in the station compound who asked me my business as I was going off to feed my cattle. I told them that I should start at sunrise. Perhaps they are looking for me now. I had no mind to carry them in my cart. Travellers like yourselves are more to my taste.”

The laugh was general, and the men parted the best of friends.

Chapter XXIII

A Discovery

Ramayan and his companion had no difficulty in discovering the path described by the cartman. Before starting they brewed themselves some coffee, which helped to make palatable a loaf of dry bread purchased the evening before. As the sun mounted above the hills in the east the smoke of their fire ascended on the still morning air in a blue column. The aroma of the coffee mingled with the scent of the dewy vegetation and the springing sap.

Refreshed, and full of anticipation of success in his quest, the tracker led the way into the heart of the jungle. Although he had asked so many questions of the cartman, he was not ignorant of the geography of the country. The river was reached where the stepping-stones lay. Below roared a fine waterfall over a wall of rock. Above the stones the river was tranquil. The valley as it narrowed towards its head became swampy. In places patches of fern and grass broke the continuous forest and afforded pasturage for the deer. They left the river behind to mount the hill-side.

From the bank of the stream the ascent was steep, and their progress slow. Ramayan frequently turned off the path to examine the jungle in the hope of finding some secret place where the contraband goods might be hidden. Broken bits of rock and huge boulders lying on the side of the mountain afforded cover for man and beast in all directions.

The patience and perseverance of the tracker were untiring. His eye was everywhere; nothing escaped him. He distinguished a footprint where others saw only a broken twig. He found traces of a human being in a chance drop of liquid that had dried in the sun, which he recognized as betel-juice. A fragment of woven cotton thread wrested from the unhemmed edge of some traveller’s loin-cloth had its significance; and a strand of black human hair caught upon a thorny branch told him its tale.

For hours he laboured without reward, covering many miles of ground in his divergences. He ate his midday meal in an open space upon the top of a shoulder of the mountain. When it was finished, he hade his companion lie down and rest, an order the man gladly obeyed. Ramayan extended himself at full length upon a slab of rock where the rays of the sun fell, with the intention of taking forty winks himself; but his restless brain would not allow him to sleep. Without disturbing his companion he rose and once more set out upon his search.

At a short distance from the spot chosen for their lunch a bare piece of rock rose out of the surrounding forest and lifted itself high above the tops of the trees. He made for it at once and found a game track by which he reached the summit. The view was extensive on all sides. To the north and south the mountains rose in magnificent masses. Their slopes and valleys were covered with jungle, their heads were bare, showing grey granite patched with lichen, moss and coarse grass. Here and there a spring of clear crystal water oozed from the moss and sprang in tiny waterfalls towards the depths below; or spread itself over a broad slab of embedded rock, where it reflected back the azure tints of the sunlit sky. To the east lay the high plateau land of grass-covered downs. In the west, Doorga’s Peak rose between him and the sea. Very little vegetation found foothold on the steep sides of the noble crag, the home of the eagle and vulture.

Between the Peak and the place where he stood was a group of enormous boulders, gigantic fragments that had been split off the mountain’s head and rolled together in a shallow depression. They lay piled upon each other, some towering above the forest that enclosed them, others hidden beneath a wealth of tropical verdure. They did not escape the notice of the tracker as he keenly scanned the surrounding country. Something moved against the dark stems of the trees. A figure crept cautiously away from a shadowy cavity between two of the boulders. The man slipped along like a wild animal, taking cover wherever it was possible. Finally he disappeared, among the tangled growth between the boulders and the prominence on which the tracker stood.

Ramayan descended quickly and joined his companion, whom he roused at once into activity. He ordered him to set the cages containing the decoys upon the ground, and to erect the net that was to fall upon the wild birds as they sidled up to the imprisoned strangers. He retired a few paces in the direction in which he had seen the man, holding the long string of the gin in his hand. He had not long to wait. The man came upon him suddenly, and Ramayan noted that he started slightly at sight of him. Seeing the arrangement for trapping the birds, his confidence was restored, and he approached with a firm step.

“Stop!” cried Ramayan, in a subdued voice. “The birds are just coming down to the call of the decoy. Don’t frighten them away. Sit down for a few minutes and wait till I pull the string.”

The stranger seated himself complacently, and beguiled the time by asking in a low voice how many birds he had caught that morning.

“None,” replied Ramayan in a whisper. “The luck is against me. I feared it would be when I passed a widow on the road.”

There was silence for a while, during which Ramayan’s attention appeared to be centred on the surrounding trees. Presently he enquired indifferently what business the new-comer had been about in the jungle. The Lumbadee answered that he was a carrier who was retaining from the South. Ramayan showed no interest whatever in the answer, and again allowed conversation to drop. By-and-bye he asked in the same low, casual voice what wages he earned by carrying cotton goods. The other named the sum. It was higher than the regular tariff for porterage; at the same time he remarked that he had not carried cotton, but sandalwood.

“Smuggled from Mysore, without doubt,” remarked the tracker, at which the Lumbadee smiled. “But that is not your concern nor mine,” he added.

At the end of fifteen minutes Ramayan pulled the string releasing the trap net, and it fell with a clatter over the imprisoned decoys. Apparently they were accustomed to the noise, for they showed no signs of fright.

“Ah! bah! nothing! Not a single bird! We are having no luck to-day. Pick up the cages and let us be moving on,” he said to his assistant.

He spoke with assumed irritation, and took no further notice of the Lumbadee, who, without a word, resumed his journey. As soon as he was out of sight, Ramayan handed to his companion the paraphernalia that proclaimed his adopted trade.

“Wait here till I return. Set the net, and if any traveller comes, attend to the business of bird-catching, and ask where he is going.”

He hurried off in the direction from which the Lumbadee had come, pursuing the path for a hundred yards. Here it was joined by a game track. His experienced eye told him that this track had lately been trodden by the foot of man. Step by step he followed the trail until he reached the group of rocks which he had seen from the eminence, and from which the Lumbadee had issued.

The boulders were so placed that they formed a number of recesses. The wild pigs had found shelter there, and had made many tracks to and fro. He examined the rocks methodically, exploring dark dusty corners where the rain never penetrated, and damp holes that were never dry. A rock snake moved out of his way, and glided off into the vegetation in which the boulders were buried. Up to this point the trail had not been difficult to follow, but here it suddenly disappeared, and he was puzzled. He was under the impression that he had investigated every nook and cranny, that not a single recess of fissure or passage had been omitted.

He seated himself upon the turf, after the fashion of his race, and turned the facts over in his mind. The sun was no longer overhead. Its slanting beams threw a light beneath the vegetation and pierced with each passing hour deeper into the dark shadows under the rocks. As he sat, his eye travelled over every visible object from force of habit. Suddenly his attention was arrested by the sight of a green leaf lying on the ground near his foot. He picked it up and glanced round for the bush or plant from which it had fallen. There was none within his view that matched it. He examined the leaf more closely, and discovered a small smear of blood on its surface.

He remembered that the Lumbadee who sat by him had a slight abrasion on his hand. The wound was fresh, for the blood was barely staunched. He rose and began to search for the plant from which the leaf had been torn.

There was only one of its kind to be seen, a thick, bushy creeper that sprawled in luxuriant growth over a huge boulder some twenty feet high. The long strands and festoons fell to the ground and entirely hid the grey granite from sight. It had the appearance of being a mound instead of a rock, and the creeper was like a bed of strong herbaceous plants growing in rich jungle soil.

A close examination showed the pressure of a foot upon some of the trails that lay upon the ground. He thrust his hands into the foliage, and found, as he had suspected, that the strands were loose and capable of being moved aside. He carefully turned them back and disclosed an opening leading into a cavity beneath the boulder. His heart gave a leap of exultation as the conviction seized him that he had discovered the object of his search.

The entrance was low and heavily screened by the green leafage. A subdued light entered by a rift in the roof and dimly illuminated the cave. On hands and knees he crept inside and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness.

A peculiar smell of a fusty, dry nature, suggestive of an animal’s den filled his nostrils; it stirred him strangely. He was suddenly possessed with a curious spasmodic impulse to retire and to rejoin his assistant. He combatted the inclination with impatience, and centred his attention on the contents of the cave. It was not a stack of rifles that met his eager eyes, but a pile of sandalwood. The logs were trimmed and neatly packed in faggots, which were bound firmly, so that they could be handled without fear of their falling to pieces.

The discovery robbed him of his triumph. It was not sandalwood that he was in search of. Though the Lumbadee had talked of it as his burden, the tracker had never believed for a moment that he spoke the truth. He felt sure that the man had carried rifles; but that he had been instructed to call his load by another term. With the palm-leaf covering thrown over it the burden might very well pass for sandalwood.

He knelt down to smell the wood. It had no distinguishing scent; but as the logs were only partially trimmed, this did not surprise him. The aromatic oil lay in the heart of the wood, and would not give out its odour until the knife had done more than strip off the bark. He was becoming used to the dim light, and was able to look round the cavity and distinguish its formation. The roof was rough and full of interstices. It rose about twelve feet in its highest part, and sloped away on one side, forming the recess in which the wood was stacked. On the other side a wall was made by another massive piece of rock that had been hurled against the first. The rift that let in the light was created by the juncture of the two stones.

The recess was packed with the bundles, and the stack reached half-way to the roof. As he stood there noting every detail, he observed that there was a uniformity about the length and size of the faggots which showed especial care in their packing, and hope once more sprang up within his heart. Was it possible that the rifles were present after all? Might they not be hidden beneath the faggots? It seemed certain from the information that had been received that they were secreted somewhere in the mountains. The receivers of the arms were doubtless alarmed by the news that the suspicions of the police had been roused. Extreme caution in the transit was necessary. At any moment the difficulties might be increased by the breaking of the monsoon with its torrents of rain, when the river would be impassable except by the bridge, and the hill paths impracticable. The place where the wood was stacked was admirably suited for a hiding-place. It was dry, and out of the way of the firewood seeker. Hundreds of rifles might lie within it in perfect safety until the rains were over and the suspicions of the authorities allayed.

Ramayan laid his hand upon one of the topmost bundles with the intention of lifting it aside to see if its removal would disclose any sign of firearms. It was heavier than he expected, and did not stir under his effort.

One of those inspirations which frequently flashed through his brain when following his particular work came to him now. Yes! the rifles were there! close at hand! They formed the nucleus of every faggot on the stack! He trembled with excitement, and the exultation returned. This would bring honour and promotion. His name would be known throughout the Presidency wherever the work of the police was spoken of. But until he could communicate with his chief, the discovery must be kept secret, even from his assistant, if he wished to secure the honour without dividing it with the police of the district.

He examined the bundle more closely, and attempted a second time to drag it from its position. His movement caused some living creature in the roof to stir, and there was a soft fluttering of wings above his head. Once more the unreasoning impulse to fly assailed him, but it was dominated by the fever of search that was in his blood. He was far away from the Kurumba, whose dwelling was on the other side of the Peak; and if he recalled him at all to his mind, it was as a person whose influence did not extend to that remote spot.

It was not an easy task to take down one of the faggots unassisted. Each weighed not less than sixty pounds. Some may have been heavier. To get a better purchase on it, he placed his foot in the side of the stack among the stump ends of the wood. Hooking his fingers into the strong rope of cocoa-nut fibre with which it was bound, he dragged it forward and let it fall with a crash upon the ground.

The noise startled the dusky little inhabitants of the cave. The fluttering increased, and the nameless terror, the insane desire to flee from an unknown enemy, again attacked him. His tenacity of purpose was great, and the sight of the bundle at his feet with its mystery unsolved braced his nerves. He took a knife from his waist band and slashed at the rope. It was knotted in such a way that it was only partially loosened. In feverish haste he tore at the pieces of wood. A glint of metal caught his eye. In his excitement he failed to observe a bat that fell blindly from the roof with outspread wings. It touched his shoulder and slid helplessly to the ground. Another unhooked itself and blundered downwards in stupid flight, followed by a third. Others sprang out of the darkness, fluttering round in aimless circles; the air was thick with them; they dashed hither and thither with every appearance of blind terror, uttering their shrill screams.

Ramayan tried to turn a deaf ear and to close his eyes to their presence. The old fear was returning upon him with increasing strength, gripping him round the heart, paralyzing his actions and cutting at the root of his self-control. He stood his ground, fighting against the obsession of his mind, wrestling with the secret of the bundle, and occasionally striking out at one or other of the animals as it approached within reach.

Yes! He was sure now that he had found the rifles. He thrust his hand in among the wood and could feel the metal barrels. In the excitement of his discovery he failed to notice that a furry creature had clambered up into a fold of his loin-cloth and hooked itself to the cotton material with which his coat was lined, where it hung closely. He tried to draw out one of the rifles by the barrel, but he was unsuccessful. He slewed the bundle round and pushed his hand high up under the wood with the intention of laying hold of the butt-end. As his fingers closed round it they included in their grip a small soft body. At the same instant sharp teeth, like a double row of needles, were buried in the edge of his palm. In his pain and surprise he uttered an exclamation.

The sound of his voice agitated the flying bats. They dashed about wildly, beating themselves against the roof of the cave and falling with a dull thud to the ground. He withdrew his hand from the bundle, and gazed at it with an overwhelming horror. Fastened to it was the bat he had inadvertently squeezed. He tried to shake it off, but it clung tenaciously.

And now the old horror returned with its original force upon the unfortunate man. It filled his whole being and took possession of him as the deadly nightmare takes hold of the sleeper, and he was powerless to divest himself of it.

He sprang to his feet and gazed round. The ground seemed to be covered with bats. They crawled over his feet. He felt their wings beating against his ankles. The angular elbows of their wings pricked him. Unreasoning terror as great as that which had assailed him as he lay at the bottom of the ravine among the thorns, destroyed the last vestige of his self-control, and wrung from him a shriek. His quest was forgotten; his triumph was gone. One desire was dominant, and that was to escape from the cave and fly.

Through the opening he plunged. The brightness of the daylight blinded him as he scudded along the game track towards the spot where the constable sat waiting with the bird-cages. His eyes stared without comprehension, and he passed the astonished assistant like one who had seen a devil and knew that the evil one was at his heels. From his hand hung the bat, its wings fluttering occasionally in their effort to catch hold of something that would support it. On, on he fled, deaf to the other’s call and earnest entreaty to stop, driven by an overmastering terror that belonged to the world of dreams rather than to wakeful reasoning life.

The assistant cast a frightened glance towards the direction from which the tracker had come; then, hastily gathering up the property of the bird-catcher’s trade, he followed his chief at a rapid but more sober pace.

Chapter XXIV

The Payment of the Fine

The Paddybird escorted the repentant matey to the Kurumba’s cave that afternoon. It was a long walk but they took their time; and the cook beguiled the hours by shooting whenever opportunity offered. He rarely aimed at anything that was on the wing, consequently he expended very little ammunition, and when he fired he killed.

They passed over the bridge and through Ellapuram, stopping at the police station to exchange a few words with Varadia, the village constable. They explained their errand, and the Paddybird suggested that a drink of coffee would be acceptable on their way back. They turned off the road at the end of the village. The constable accompanied them as far as his house, which was on the outskirts. From there the path entered the forest, leading by many zigzags up the mountain to the foot of the Peak.

The sun shone out fiercely from a clear azure sky. Low down in the south and west, heavy banks of cloud gathered, showing their dazzling white heads above the lower spurs of the hills. Every tree was outlined in the shimmering light reflected from the glossy foliage. Barbets heralded the coming rain with their continuous calls. The flaunting pheasant crow tumbled in and out of the green leaves, displaying its orange-brown wings to its admiring mate as it uttered its laughing hoot. Where the mountain stream babbled and purled over the stones, the whistling thrush serenaded its chosen companion; and high above the forest eagles circled and swooped, their harsh cries softened by distance. The sound of the woodpecker came from the gnarled tree-trunks; and the honey-birds and butterflies hovered over the flowers of the jungle, their brilliant tints eclipsing the glory of the blossoms.

The walk along the cart-road was hot. It was a relief to enter the cool shadows of the forest and escape from the scorching rays of the sun. Where the shrubs afforded open space, the delicate fern carpeted the ground, joining hands with the tender branching lycopodium. From the branches of the tall forest trees hung long strands of more sturdy moss and lichen. Bunches of orchids nestled in the forks and cavities of the boughs, only waiting for the coming rain to burst into a wealth of speckled bloom with purple and brown, lemon yellow, and pale waxen efflorescence. Everywhere the festooning creeper trailed its wreaths and hung its sensitive tendrils.

Nothing living of the feathered tribe escaped the keen eye of the Paddybird. He had no desire to kill all he saw. He possessed the true instinct of a lover of nature, and loved the jungle with its many voices—the wind in the trees, the call of the birds, the roar of the torrent. The forest was his playground, the place where he found recreation. He loved its loneliness, its depths, its scent of verdure, its shy wild creatures. This was his last visit for some months. Two days hence he and his master would be travelling westward by the fire-carriage towards civilization. The mountains, with their majestic grandeur, would fade like an azure dream on the far horizon behind him, their valleys and forests, their streams and torrents hidden in blue haze. The canvas tent would be exchanged for the bungalow, and the jungle for the noisy bazaar of the town. The air, warmer and moister than ever, would be thick with the smoke of many domestic fires. The croak of the verandah crow would ring in his ears at dawn in place of the call of the thrush and barbet. His gun would rest useless and idle in a corner of the kitchen, until with the roll of the seasons the welcome time came round once more for camp and travel.

The Paddybird and the matey reached their destination, and found the Kurumba seated in his usual place outside the cave where the sun’s rays fell. He gave no sign that he recognized them as they made their salaams. The Paddybird took upon himself the duty of spokesman.

“My brother has brought the sum of money promised. It is half his pay without any deductions.”

The eyes of the magician turned towards the two men; but the cook observed that they were not focussed upon him. They seemed to be gazing into an immeasurable distance, watching scenes that were being enacted far away and were invisible to ordinary mortals. The Paddybird signed to the matey to advance and place the silver coins before the Kurumba. It was done, but still there was no recognition of their presence nor of their mission.

“Swami, my brother here begs me to say that he knew not how his deed would bring evil upon your honour. It was the work of another.”

“Of another,” repeated the matey, who still suffered from qualms of fear lest the reparation he was making should not satisfy the offended magician.

“Of another, who is cursed!”

They both started. The lips of the swami had not appeared to move; every muscle was still. The voice was not the voice of the Kurumba; nor did it come from his direction. It sounded in the air above their heads, and the matey cast a frightened glance at the devil tree. They waited in silence for an acknowledgment of the offering, and the customary permission accorded to the inferior from the superior to depart. The Kurumba preserved his attitude, and continued in his trance. There was no further mysterious demonstration, and the Paddybird, having duties that called him home, took his leave.

“Salaam, swami; we return to our master’s camp, with your kind permission,” said the cook.

He signed to the matey, who approached nearer and prostrated himself, touching the earth with his forehead. They retired a few paces and waited, but with no different result. The Paddybird looked up at the sun.

“Come, it is time we returned.”

Leading the way, he set off at a swinging pace down the hill, which brought them to the village in less than half the time it had taken to reach the cave. At the police station they stopped to rest, and whilst they related their tale, Varadia served them with some hot coffee. When the Paddybird had concluded his story, he commented on the strange conduct of the Kurumba.

“Was he asleep? If so, why did he not wake at the sound of our voices?” he asked.

“He was not asleep. He was working a spell, making magic somewhere. At such times he is far away, although he seems to sit there.”

“Was it a spell for good or evil?” asked the matey, his heart in his mouth.

“Ah! bah! who can tell? Perhaps we may learn all about it; perhaps it may never be known to us.”

“I should die of fear if I had not appeased him with half my pay. I must have run away by now,” observed the matey.

Varadia chuckled scornfully.

“It is of no use to run away or hide; these magicians know everything. A man may creep into a well or under a stone, and they will find him without troubling to search for him.”

“How do they learn their secrets?” asked the Paddybird.

“They are shown them in bits of glassy stone that they find in the mountains. The Kurumba has just such a piece. It is fashioned round like a ball, and is enclosed in a silver cage woven with a spell that imprisons a small devil inside the stone. At his word the devil shows him by means of a mirror all that he would know. He sees the man he would punish lying in his hiding-place. Although he may be sitting asleep in one place, as you have seen him to-day, he goes unseen to the fugitive and works a spell. The sign of the spell is fear, a fear that torments and drives and terrifies,” explained Varadia.

“It was so with the tracker,” remarked the matey.

“But our master broke the spell by taking him into the office tent and sending him away by the night mail,” said the Paddybird.

“He did not leave by the night mail.”

“Did you see him after the train had left the station?” asked the cook in surprise.

“No; but I have reason for thinking that he would not go.”

“How was that?”

“As we came near to the station a constable from Pothanur spoke to us. He said that he brought a message and news. If it were not to stop the return of the tracker why should the man be sent? The news would have been told on his arrival at Pothanur. They ordered me to return, which I did. It is not for the subordinate to talk to his chief.”

“You told the master nothing?”

“I answered his questions; I repeated the tracker’s message, and told him what I had seen and heard. His way of thinking might not be my way of thinking. Too many words make foolishness and trouble where there is no knowledge. I had no knowledge of what the tracker intended to do. I had only my thoughts, and the master did not ask for them.”

The coffee brewed by Varadia was excellent, and the rest under the large tree that stood in the police station compound was refreshing. Time was passing, and it was necessary for the Paddybird to get back to his duties in the camp. Though the Poochee could begin the preparations for his master’s dinner, the presence of the cook was desirable to put the final touches and dish up.

“I will walk with you to the place where the roads join. I may not go further,” said Varadia.

The three men strolled across the bridge. The afternoon was still and warm, Nature seemed asleep under the influence of the sun. To the east the mountains rose in a noble outline of rounded shoulders and craggy peaks. To the west they fell away in lesser heights, their valleys terraced with fields interspersed with plantations of palms. The river followed its course seaward, flowing quietly with its limpid depths and rippling surface. Every gorgeous tint from the sky was borrowed to adorn its broad pools.

“How soon does the Kurumba go?” asked the Paddybird.

“He leaves to-morrow. When he bought rice of the chetty, he took enough to last ten days. The period is up and he has not purchased any more; therefore the village people say that he will depart at sunset tomorrow, and the rains will begin on the following day.”

“How do they know that the rain will come the day after he leaves?”

“It happens so every year. Why should it be different this year?”

“Where does he get his knowledge? From the devil in the glass ball?” asked the matey.

“He learns about the weather from the birds and beasts of the forest. They know when the change is coming, and they stay or go according to whether it is dry or wet. What they know they tell to the Kurumba, and they never make a mistake.”

They had reached the junction of the roads, and Varadia had stopped with the intention of turning back. The Paddybird’s eyes were sharp and far-sighted at any time, but most of all when he carried his gun. As they stood there talking, he gazed up the road. A figure appeared in the distance, and ran towards them. It was not the steady stride of a messenger jogging along at the rate of six miles an hour, but the rapid run of one who fled in fear.

“Some one comes quickly down the hill as though he were escaping from his pursuers,” remarked the Paddybird.

“It is the tracker!” cried Varadia, in astonishment. “He comes to ask for help. Hoh! Iyah! What news do you bring?”

“And why such haste?” added the Paddybird.

The tracker panted; his eyes rolled and his lips were drawn back. He was like some hunted animal that had been sorely pressed to escape the clutches of its pursuer. His legs trembled under him, and his dry tongue refused utterance. He held out the hand that had been bitten. Blood oozed from the wound. The bat was gone, shaken off in his frantic flight.

“What is the matter? Why running so fast? Is it help that you want?” asked the Paddybird, standing in front of him to stop his precipitate flight.

“Those devils have returned! They follow me everywhere! They would eat out my heart and my liver, and I cannot escape from them!” gasped the wretched man.

His words were understood without further explanation. The three men heard them with consternation and fear. Had not two of them witnessed the working of a spell that very afternoon? Here was the result of the Kurumba’s trance. This was the fear that he had evoked by his magic. It was folly indeed on the part of the tracker to return and place himself once more within reach of the evil influence.

“Ah! bah! This is the doing of the magician who lives in the cave,” cried the matey. “He has put a curse upon you, and it is a bad one. We have just come from his dwelling. He was working magic whilst we were there, and we knew that it meant evil for some one!”

“Be silent, son of a dhoby-donkey!” exclaimed the Paddybird, roughly, to the matey. “The master said that it was folly to talk thus.” He turned to Ramayan, and continued, “The Kurumba slept, and we did not disturb him.”

The tracker cast terrified glances round him, as though he expected to see a cloud of bats appear out of the sky.

“I am speaking the truth only,” asserted the matey, positively, as he noted the action of the distracted tracker. “If I had not laid my money at the feet of the magician I, too, would have been cursed in like manner. See! what is this? Am I not right?”

He triumphantly drew from beneath the coat of the man the little clinging creature that had crept there when the colony inside the recess under the boulder had been disturbed. It had fastened the hooks of its wings securely into the lining of the coat, and was with difficulty dislodged.

Ramayan felt the fluttering of its wings and shrank from it as though it had been a deadly snake. Snatching his garment away he uttered a cry of terror and darted forward. Taken completely by surprise, they made no effort to arrest him. In vain they shouted to him, praying him to stop and assuring him that there was nothing to be afraid of. He was deaf to their entreaties and continued his mad career at headlong speed down the road.

A waking nightmare of unreasoning fear had him in its grip and drove him ever onwards, insensible to the call of others. One desire possessed his soul, the desire to escape, to reach the fire-carriage that would carry him away from the region of terror. His quest, his discovery of the arms, his companion, were all forgotten. In his imagination he was followed by a cloud of bats. He heard their shrill screams in the creaking of cart wheels on the road, and the flutter of their leathern wings in the rustle of the wind among the trees. If the branch of a roadside bush touched him in his flight, it was the hooked claws endeavouring to clutch him in a close embrace. His mouth was dry and parched, but he dared not stay to slake his thirst by the stream that trickled out of the rock. The village people passing along the highway, called to him with questions concerning his haste, but he did not pause to reply. Their words had no meaning for him, and delay meant death in his heated imagination. Seeing that no one followed the flying man, the villagers resumed their way with shrugging shoulder and calm indifference.

“He has been beaten by a wicked master, and is escaping further punishment. Who knows? Perhaps he deserved it, if not in this birth, assuredly in a former,” they said, as they dismissed the incident from their minds.

The Paddybird and the matey set out for the camp immediately after the tracker had broken away from them. There was little conversation on the road. Although the cook had endeavoured to silence the matey in the presence of the tracker, he was of the same opinion as had been expressed. The man was under a spell.

As soon as the preparations for the dinner were completed, and the cook had assured himself that the soup, “si’dish,” joint, game, and pudding were ready for the dishing up, he allowed himself to be questioned as to the truth of the strange story already whispered by the matey. To the intense satisfaction of that individual, he admitted in the privacy of his open-air kitchen that the tale was true. The tracker had shown every sign that he was under a terrible spell. There is something infinitely consoling to the Oriental in seeing another suffer from a misfortune that has been averted from himself by forethought and prompt action. The matey was full of self-congratulation, even though the payment of the money involved a considerable sacrifice of his own comfort. He would be obliged to do without such luxuries as tobacco, betel-nut, sweetmeats, and an occasional nip of arrack for the next two or three months.

“If I had not taken half my month’s pay”—he never lost an opportunity of naming the sum, it was of such magnificent proportions—“and laid it at the feet of the swami, I should now be flying in terror for my life, laid under a spell such as is killing the tracker.”

“Was it a devil that pursued him, little father?” asked the Poochee, as he arranged the dishes in the order in which they would presently be required for dishing up.

“There was no devil to be seen as he ran down the road,” replied the Paddybird.

“A Malabar devil would not have troubled himself with a stranger from the East Coast,” remarked one of the tent lascars, a man from the West Coast who had a profound contempt for the East.

“It was a command put by the Kurumba upon his servants, the bats,” said the matey, with a close imitation of the manner of the cook.

“Shuh!” exclaimed the Paddybird, with the scorn he usually exhibited when the matey ventured an opinion out of his own especial province. “That is not the way in which those kind of men work. This is what happened. First, he turned the tracker’s liver to water, and then he put terror in his heart, as I put pepper and ginger into your stomachs when I prepare your food. The water melted away his courage as it melts salt, and he became so frightened that he was in terror of the smallest animal with the smallest voice. Whether one is a Christian or a Muhammadan or a heathen, it is not good to anger men who make magic or who command spirits. It may be that they have only to think of evil for evil to come. It may be that they have power to command devils. The heathen tell us that men who work magic have the assistance of their gods, and we know that the heathen gods are not good,”

The matter was discussed at every available moment during the serving up of dinner, and again when the dishes were washed and the saucepans cleansed.

As Benacre sat smoking outside the tent, idly watching the wonderful display of distant lightning in the south-west, the Paddybird came to him.

“You will pack up as much as you can to-night, and get away yourself by the morning mail to headquarters. I shall not arrive at the bungalow until dinner-time,” said the Assistant Superintendent.

Having received his orders in detail, the Paddybird informed his master that he had been that day to the Kurumba’s cave, and had witnessed the payment of the fine imposed upon the matey.

“I hope he understands that he was made a tool of, and that his folly might have brought an innocent man into trouble.”

“Yes, sir; the matey knows better not to be played with as cat’s-paw again. He plenty frightened. To anger a man of magic brings down a hundred disagreeables of disturbing sort upon the head of unwary meddler. Your honour done sent the tracker to the station.”

“Yes; it was time he went. He was worrying himself into an illness here.”

“I saw him to-day, this afternoon.”

“You did!” cried Benacre in astonishment, as he looked round incredulously at his faithful factotum. “You must be mistaken.”

“No, sir; it was Ramayan himself. Varadia saw him too, and can tell your honour that I speak a true word.”

“I understood from Varadia that he went away by last night’s mail.”

“Your honour will remember that Varadia left him with the constable who had arrived from Pothanur.”

“To be sure; a man who had come to fetch him.”

“No, sir; it is believed that the Pothanur constable brought a message or letter giving fresh information and new orders from head-quarters, which Ramayan obeyed; but Varadia heard nothing. The tracker told him to go home at once, and not to wait.”

“What was the tracker doing when you saw him to-day?”

“He was scooting down the road like mad, and making for the station as hard as his legs could leg it. The terror had come back. He made wide eyes and showed teeth like demented person seeing a bad devil for the first time only.”

“He should have gone back to Pothanur as I advised him, and applied for leave,” said Benacre.

“Or, if he had orders to return, he should have come to the camp and remained with the obedient sheep of master’s house, where, by the grace of God and of your honour, he would have been safe from magic-working. I think that he returned in secret and underhand manner to quest for hidden firearms, which was his business for this last visit. He did not scruple when here to give the Kurumba out for suspected. It is likely that the Kurumba knows all about it.”

“Where did you meet Ramayan?”

“As I stood with Varadia talking near the bridge this afternoon, we saw a man running down the road. His hand was bleeding from bite of beast. A bat hugged him under his coat. The matey pulled it out, and when he saw it he howled like jackal caught in trap, and legged it without more anon. I think—your honour must not be angry with poor Paddybird for speaking of forbidden things—I think that Kurumba is very clever, too clever for the tracker; and that Ramayan had better get shut of him.”

“Is it known in camp that Ramayan was running away in a fright?”

“That matey is a silly talking man with no sense,” replied the Paddybird, with superior pity for a weak fellow-servant.

“Well, look here; whether the man was bewitched or no, I won’t have it talked about. Do you hear?”

“Yes, sir. I will go and publish master’s orders at once to all the camp inferiors as well as to the matey.”

“And if the tracker turns up again”

“He will cease to appear this time altogether. He will not dare to return either openly as official, or underhand in secret,” said the Paddybird, with conviction.

“Well, if he does come back, the subject is not to be mentioned.”

As the matter had been thoroughly discussed already, the cook saw no difficulty in promising silence.

“Very good, sir; I will keep mum, and make all the servants also mumblers by master’s strict orders.”

The Paddybird rejoined the camp followers by the fire where the evening meal of curry and rice was ready to be served out. As he piled the platters with the savoury food, he said in an authoritative voice—

“The master gives order that there is to be no talk in camp about the Kurumba or the tracker. It will not be wise to speak of either.”

The announcement was received with a chorus of “Ah! bah!”

“Then he, too, fears the power of the Kurumba?” hazarded the matey.

The Paddybird did not contradict the statement.

“I know not what may be in his mind. My business is with that which goes between his teeth,” he replied, as he stripped himself bare to the waist in preparation for the evening meal.

“Our master is wise,” remarked the Poochee. “It is better not to anger the tiger, nor to speak disrespectfully of it until one is out of the jungle.”

The food occupied their attention, and tongues ceased chattering until it was finished. The pots and pans were swiftly packed into their cases, and preparations made for the striking of the tents before dawn. Sleep followed close upon the packing, and the master’s order was faithfully carried out.

Whilst they slept, the night mail carried away a shivering, trembling man, who sat huddled in a corner of a crowded third-class carriage. He shrank from every chance touch of his fellow-travellers, and glanced apprehensively at the darkness outside. His assistant helped him to his house, where fever stretched him on a bed of sickness. As soon as he was sufficiently recovered, he prayed for a transfer to a northern district, where he is known at the present day as an indefatigable worker, and one of the most successful trackers in the service.

Moving camp to head-quarters the next day gave no time for gossip. The carts were loaded, and travelled down the valley at a leisurely pace. The servants were too full of the pleasant anticipation of meeting their families again to trouble their heads about the Kurumba. They failed to notice a figure that followed them for some distance, a staff in one hand, and a bundle in the other. It was the magician himself, making for regions where the monsoon would be modified, and where he would be certain of a welcome from the custodian of one of the village temples.

The lightning played round Doorga’s Peak and the Western Ghats were hidden in masses of vapour. The brown flood rolling seaward where a few days ago there had been limpid pools and rippling water told the glad tale that the monsoon had brought the welcome rain. The dwellers in the plains looked up with gladness at the grey skies. There was no fear this year that the dread demon famine would brood over their land.

The End