He got out one gasping cry of terror as he realised his mistake; then he had a blurred consciousness of the world upside down, and everything was over. It was Olaki’s most dangerous throw, carried out by gripping the victim’s wrists and hurling his body over by a heave of the legs. And nine times out of ten the result was a broken neck. This was one of the nine.
For a while the soldier stared at the body, frowning thoughtfully. To have killed the chauffeur was inconvenient, but since it had happened it necessitated a little rearrangement of his plans. The moon was setting and the night would become darker, so there was a good chance that Lakington would not recognise that the driver of his car had changed. And if he did—well, it would be necessary to forgo the somewhat theatrical entertainment he had staged for his benefit at The Elms. Bending over the dead man, he removed his long grey driving-coat and cap; then, without a sound, he threaded his way through the bushes in search of the car.
He found it about a hundred yards nearer the house, so well hidden in a small space off the road that he was almost on top of it before he realised the fact. To his relief it was empty, and placing his own cap in a pocket under the seat he put on the driving-coat of his predecessor. Then, with a quick glance round to ensure that everything was in readiness for the immediate and rapid departure such as he imagined Lakington would desire, he turned and crept stealthily towards the house.
II
Laidley Towers was en fête. The Duchess, determined that every conceivable stunt should be carried out which would make for the entertainment of her guests, had spared no pains to make the evening a success. The Duke, bored to extinction, had been five times routed out of his study by his indefatigable spouse, and was now, at the moment Hugh first came in sight of the house, engaged in shaking hands with a tall, aristocratic-looking Indian. …
“How d’y do,” he murmured vacantly. “What did you say the dam’ fellah’s name was, my dear?” he whispered in a hoarse undertone to the Duchess, who stood beside him welcoming the distinguished foreigner.
“We’re so glad you could come, Mr. Ram Dar,” remarked the Duchess affably. “Everyone is so looking forward to your wonderful entertainment.” Round her neck were the historic pearls, and as the Indian bowed low over her outstretched hand, his eyes gleamed for a second.
“Your Grace is too kind.” His voice was low and deep, and he glanced thoughtfully around the circle of faces near him. “Maybe the sands that come from the mountains that lie beyond the everlasting snows will speak the truth; maybe the gods will be silent. Who knows … who knows?”
As if unconsciously his gaze rested on the Duke, who manfully rose to the occasion.
“Precisely, Mr. Rum Rum,” he murmured helpfully, “who indeed? If they let you down, don’t you know, perhaps you could show us a card trick?”
He retired in confusion, abashed by the baleful stare of the Duchess, and the rest of the guests drew closer. The jazz band was having supper; the last of the perspiring tenants had departed, and now the bonne bouche of the evening was about to begin.
It had been the Marquis of Laidley himself who had suggested getting hold of this most celebrated performer, who had apparently never been in England before. And since the Marquis of Laidley’s coming-of-age was the cause of the whole evening’s entertainment, his suggestion had been hailed with acclamation. How he had heard about the Indian, and from whom, were points about which he was very vague; but since he was a very vague young man, the fact elicited no comment. The main thing was that here, in the flesh, was a dark, mysterious performer of the occult, and what more could a house party require? And in the general excitement Hugh Drummond crept closer to the open window. It was the Duchess he was concerned with and her pearls, and the arrival of the Indian was not going to put him off his guard. … Then suddenly his jaw tightened: Irma Peterson had entered the room with young Laidley.
“Do you want anything done, Mr. Ram Dar?” asked the Duchess—“the lights down or the window shut?”
“No, I thank you,” returned the Indian. “The night is still; there is no wind. And the night is dark—dark with strange thoughts, that thronged upon me as I drew nigh to the house—whispering through the trees.” Again he fixed his eyes on the Duke. “What is your pleasure, Protector of the Poor?”
“Mine?” cried that pillar of the House of Lords, hurriedly stifling a yawn. “Any old thing, my dear fellow. … You’d much better ask one of the ladies.”
“As you will,” returned the other gravely, “but if the gods speak the truth, and the sand does not lie. I can but say what is written.”
From a pocket in his robe he took a bag and two small bronze dishes, and placing them on a table stood waiting.
“I am ready,” he announced. “Who first will learn of the things that are written on the scroll of Fate?”
“I say, hadn’t you better do it in private, Mr. Rum?” murmured the Duke apprehensively. “I mean, don’t you know, it might be a little embarrassing if the jolly old gods really do give tongue; and I don’t see anybody getting killed in the rush.”
“Is there so much to conceal?” demanded the Indian, glancing round the group, contempt in his brooding eyes. “In the lands that lie beyond the snows we have nothing to conceal. There is nothing that can be concealed, because all is known.”
And it was at that moment that the intent watcher outside the window began to shake with silent mirth. For the face was the face of the Indian, Ram Dar, but the
