“Yes,” continued Isaacs, “he has been a prisoner in the palace of Baithopoor for six weeks, and not a soul save the maharajah and you and I know it.  He came to Baithopoor, humbly disguised as a Yogi from the hills, though he is a Mussulman, and having obtained a private hearing, disclosed his real name, proposing to the sovereign a joint movement on Kabul, then just pacified by the British, and promising all manner of things for the assistance.  Old Baitho, who is no fool, clapped him into prison under a guard of Punjabi soldiers who could not speak a word of Afghan, and after due consideration packed up his traps and betook himself to Simla by short stages, for the journey is not an easy one for a man of his years.  He arrived the day before yesterday, and has ostensibly come to congratulate the Viceroy on the success of the British arms.  He has had to modify the enthusiasm of his proposed address, in consequence of the bad news from Kabul.  Of course, his first move was to send for me, and I had a long interview this morning, in which he explained everything.  I told him that I would not move in the matter without a third person—­necessary as a witness when dealing with such people—­and I have brought you.”

“But what was his proposal to invest you with a crown?  Did he think you were a likely person for a new Emir of Kabul?”

“Exactly.  My faith, and above all, my wealth, suggested to him that I, as a born Persian, might be the very man for the vacant throne.  No doubt, the English would be delighted to have me there.  But the whole thing is visionary and ridiculous.  I think I shall accept the other proposition, and take the prisoner.  It is a good bargain.”

I was silent.  The intimate way in which I had seen Isaacs hitherto had made me forget his immense wealth and his power.  I had not realised that he could be so closely connected with intrigues of such importance as this, or that independant native princes were likely to look upon him as a possible Emir of Afghanistan.  I had nothing to say, and I determined to keep to the part I was brought to perform, which was that of a witness, and nothing more.  If my advice were asked, I would speak boldly for Shere Ali’s liberation and protest against the poor man being bought and sold in this way.  This train of thought reminded me of Isaacs’ words when we left Miss Westonhaugh that morning.  “It is not often,” he had said, “that you see such jewels bought and sold.”  No, indeed!

“You see,” said Isaacs, as we neared our destination, “Baithopoor is in my power, body and soul, for a word from me would expose him to the British Government as ‘harbouring traitors,’ as they would express it.  On the other hand, the fact that you, the third party, are a journalist, and could at a moment’s notice give publicity to the whole thing, will be an additional safeguard.  I have him as in a vice.  And now put on your most formal manners and look as if you were impenetrable as the rock and unbending as cast iron, for we have reached his bungalow.”