“To return,” I said at last, “to the subject from which we started, the tigers.  If we are really going, we must leave here the day after to-morrow morning—­indeed, why not to-morrow?”

“No; to-morrow we are to play that game of polo, which I am looking forward to with pleasure.  Besides, it will take the men three days to get the elephants together, and I only telegraphed this morning to the collector of the district to make the arrangements.”

“So you have already taken steps?  Does Kildare know you have sent orders?”

“Certainly.  He came to me this morning at daybreak, and we determined to arrange everything and take uncle Ghyrkins for granted.  You need not look astonished; Kildare and I are allies, and very good friends.”  What a true Oriental!  How wise and far-sighted was the Persian, how bold and reckless the Irishman!  It was odd, I thought, that Kildare had not mentioned the interview with Isaacs.  Yet there was a certain rough delicacy—­contradictory and impulsive—­in his silence about this coalition with his rival.  We rode along and discussed the plans for the expedition.  All the men in the party, except Lord Steepleton, who had not been long in India, had killed tigers before.  There would be enough of us, without asking any one else to join.  The collector to whom Isaacs had telegraphed was an old acquaintance of his, and would probably go out for a few days with us.  It all seemed easy enough and plain sailing.  In the course of time we returned to our hotel, dressed, and made our way through the winding roads to Mr. Currie Ghyrkins’ bungalow.

We were met on the verandah by the old commissioner, who welcomed us warmly and praised our punctuality, for the clock was striking seven in the drawing-room, as we divested ourselves of our light top-coats.  In the vestibule, Miss Westonhaugh and her brother came forward to greet us.

“John,” said the young lady, “you know I told you there was some one here whom you got out of trouble ever so many years ago in Bombay.  Here he is.  This is a new introduction.  Mr. John Westonhaugh, Mr. Abdul Hafiz-ben-Isak, commonly known to his friends as Mr. Isaacs.”  Her face beamed with pleasure, and I thought with pride, as she led her brother to Isaacs, and her eyes rested long on the Persian with a look that, to me, argued something more than a mere interest.  The two men clasped hands and stood for some seconds looking at each other in silence, but with very different expressions.  Westonhaugh wore a look of utter amazement, though he certainly seemed pleased.  The good heart that had prompted the good action twelve years before was still in the right place, above any petty considerations about nationality.  His astonishment gradually changed to a smile of real greeting and pleasure, as he began to shake the hand he still held.  I thought that even the faintest tinge of blood coloured his pale cheek.

“God bless my soul,” said he, “I remember you perfectly well now.  But it is so unexpected; my sister reminded me of the story, which I had not forgotten, and now I look at you I remember you perfectly.  I am so glad.”