“I think you’re right there, Major,” said Barclay, who was sitting on the edge of the bed.

“We’ll see.  There isn’t the usually handy pi-dog to try it on.  But we’ll make use of our noisy friend here.  He won’t be much loss to the world if it poisons him,” and Dermot broke off a piece of the toast and threw it on the floor of the balcony.  The crow stopped his cawing, cocked his head on one side, and eyed the tempting morsel.  Buttered toast did not often come his way.  He dropped down on to the balcony floor, hopped over to the toast, pecked at it, picked it up in his strong beak, and flew with it to the roof of the building opposite.  In silence the two men watched him devour it.

“That seems all right, Major,” said the police officer.  “You’ve made him your friend for life.  He’s coming back for more.”

The crow perched on the rail again and cawed loudly.

“Oh, shut up, you greedy bird.  Here’s another bit for you.  That’s all you’ll have.  I want the rest myself,” said Dermot, laughing.  He broke off another piece and threw it out on to the balcony.

The crow looked at it, ruffled its feathers, shook itself—­and then fell heavily to the floor of the balcony and lay still.

“Good heavens!  What an escape!” ejaculated Barclay, suddenly pale.

The two men stared at each other and the dead bird in silence.  Then Dermot murmured: 

“This is getting monotonous.  Hang it!  They are in a hurry.  Why, they couldn’t even know whether I was alive or not.  If the snake trick had come off, I’d be a corpse now and this nice little meal would have been wasted.  Really, they are rather crowding things on me.”

“They’re taking no chances, the devils,” said the younger man, who was more upset by the occurrence than his companion.

“Well, I’ll have to do without my chota hazri; and I do like a cup of tea in the morning,” said the soldier; and he began to shave.  Glancing out of the window he continued:  “They’ve got a fine day for the show anyway.”

Barclay sprang up from the chair on which he had suddenly sat down.  His nerve was shaken by the two attempts on his companion’s life.

“Damn them and their shows, the infernal murderers,” he muttered savagely, and rushed out of the room.

“Amen!” said Dermot, as he lathered his face.  Death had been near him too often before for him to be disturbed now.  So he went on shaving.

Before he left the room he poured tea into the cup on the tray and got rid of the rest of the toast, to make it appear that he had freely partaken of the meal.  He wrapped up the dead crow in paper and locked it in his despatch-case, until he could dispose of it that evening after dark.