“I suppose you have no objection, Mr. Ghyrkins?  Ladies constantly go on such expeditions, and they do not appear to be the least in the way.”

“Objections?  Of course I have objections.  Do you suppose I want to drag my niece to a premature grave?  Think of the fever and the rough living and all, and she only just out from England.”

“She looks as if she could stand anything,” I said, as just then an open space in the trees gave us a glimpse of Miss Westonhaugh and Isaacs ambling along and apparently in earnest conversation.  She certainly looked strong enough to go tiger-hunting that minute, as she sat erect but half turned to the off side, listening to what Isaacs seemed to be saying.

“I hope you will not go and tell her so,” said Ghyrkins.  “If she gets an idea that the thing is possible, there will be no holding her.  You don’t know her.  I hardly know her myself.  Never saw her since she was a baby till the other day.  Now you are the sort of person to go after tigers.  Why do you not go off with my nephew and Mr. Isaacs and Kildare, and kill as many of them as you like?”

“I have no objection, I am sure.  I suppose the Howler could spare me for a fortnight, now that I have converted the Press Commissioner, your new deus ex machina for the obstruction of news.  What a motley party we should be.  Let me see.—­a Bombay Civil Servant, an Irish nobleman, a Persian millionaire, and a Yankee newspaper man.  By Jove! add to that a famous Revenue Commissioner and a reigning beauty, and the sextett is complete.”  Mr. Ghyrkins looked pleased at the gross flattery of himself.  I recollected suddenly that, though he was far from famous as a revenue commissioner, I had read of some good shooting he had done in his younger days.  Here was a chance.

“Besides, Mr. Ghyrkins, a tiger-hunting party would not be the thing without some seasoned Nimrod to advise and direct us.  Who so fitted for the post as the man of many a chase, the companion of Maori, the slayer of the twelve foot tiger in the Nepaul hills in 1861?”

“You have a good memory, Mr. Griggs,” said the old fellow, perfectly delighted, and now fairly launched on his favourite topic.  “By Gad, sir, if I thought I should get such another chance I would go with you to-morrow!”

“Why not? there are lots of big man-eaters about,” and I incontinently reeled off half a page of statistics, more or less accurate, about the number of persons destroyed by snakes and wild beasts in the last year.  “Of course most of those deaths were from tigers, and it is a really good action to kill a few.  Many people can see tigers but cannot shoot them, whereas your deeds of death amongst them ate a matter of history.  You really ought to be philanthropic, Mr. Ghyrkins, and go with us.  We might stand a chance of seeing some real sport then.”

“Why, really, now that you make me think of it, I believe I should like it amazingly, and I could leave my niece with Lady—­Lady—­Stick-in-the-mud; what the deuce is her name?  The wife of the Chief Justice, you know.  You ought to know, really—­I never remember names much;” he jerked out his sentences irately.