Dermot thanked him, and the young policeman went with him, carrying the lamp, which had a double wick and gave a good light.  Putting it down on the dressing-table he lit a cheroot and proceeded to seat himself in a chair beside the bed.  Like the room itself and the rest of the furniture, it was covered with dust.

“By George, what dirty quarters they’ve given you, sir,” he exclaimed.  “Just look at the floor.  I’ll bet it’s never been swept since the Palace was built.  The dust is an inch deep near the bed.”  He polished the seat of the chair carefully before he sat down.

The heat in the room was stifling, and the police officer, even in his white mess uniform, felt it acutely.

“By Jove, it’s steamy tonight,” he remarked, wiping his face.

“Yes, I hate October,” replied Dermot.  “It’s the worst month in the year, I think.  Its damp heat, when the rain is drying up out of the ground, is more trying than the worst scorching we get in May and June.”

“Well, you don’t seem to find it too hot, Major,” said the other laughing.  “It looks as if you’d got a hot-water bottle in the foot of your bed.”

“Hot-water bottle?  What do you mean?” asked Dermot in surprise, throwing the collar that he had just taken off on to the dressing-table and turning round.

“Why, don’t you see?  Under the clothes at the foot,” said his companion, pointing with the Major’s cane to a bulge in the thin blanket and sheet covering the bed.  He got up and strode across to it.  “What on earth have you got there?  It does look—­Oh, good heavens, keep back!” he cried suddenly.

Dermot was already bending over the bed, but the police officer pushed him forcibly back and snatched up the cane which he had laid down.  Then, cautiously seizing the top of the blanket and sheet near the pillow, he whisked them off with a sudden vigorous jerk.  At the spot where the bulge had betrayed it a black cobra, one of the deadliest snakes in India, lifted its head and a foot of its length from its shining coils.  The forked tongue darted and quivered incessantly, and the unwinking eyes glistened as with a loud hiss it raised itself higher and poised its head to strike.

Barclay struck it sharply with the cane, and it fell writhing on the bed, its spine broken.  The coils wound and unwound vigorously, the tail convulsively lashing the sheet.  He raised the stick to strike it again, but, paused with arm uplifted, for the snake could not move away or raise its head.

Seeing that it was powerless the young Superintendent swung round to Dermot.

“Have you a pistol, Major?” he whispered.

Without a word the soldier unlocked his despatch-box and took out a small automatic.

“Loaded?”

The soldier nodded.

“Give it to me.”

Taking the weapon he tiptoed to the door, listened awhile, then opened it sharply.  But there was no one there.