Dermot went to the door and waited.  Soon he heard the key turned in the lock and the rusty bolts drawn back.  The door was then flung open by one of the porters, while the others huddled against the wall, for Barclay stood in front of them with a pistol raised.  He sprang forward and seized Dermot’s hand.

“Heaven and earth!  How are you alive?” he cried.  “I thought the devils had got you this time.  I was tempted to shoot these swine here for being so long in opening the door.”

There was a clatter of boots on the marble floor, as Payne and Granger, followed by the rest of the Englishmen, ran up the hall, cheering.  They crowded round Dermot, nearly shook his arm off, thumped him on the back, and overwhelmed him with congratulations.

As Dermot thanked them he said: 

“I didn’t know that you fellows were looking on, otherwise I wouldn’t have done that little bit of gallery-play.  But I had a reason for it.”  “Yes; we know,” said Payne significantly.  “Barclay told us.”

Then they dragged him protesting upstairs to the lounge, that the women might congratulate him too; which they did each in her own fashion.  Ida was effusive and sentimental, Mrs. Rice fatuous, and Noreen timid and almost stiff.  The girl, who had endured an agony worse than many deaths, could not voice her feelings, and her congratulations seemed curt and cold to others besides Dermot.

She had no opportunity of speaking to him apart, even for a minute, for the men surrounded him and insisted on toasting him and questioning him until it was time to dress for dinner.  And even then they formed a guard of honour and escorted him to his room.

Noreen, utterly worn out by her sleepless nights and the storm of emotions that had shaken her, was unable to come down to dinner, and at her brother’s wish went to bed instead.  And so she did not learn that Dermot was leaving the Palace at the early hour of four o’clock in the morning.

That night as Dermot and Barclay went upstairs together the police officer said: 

“I wonder if they’ll dare to try anything against you tonight, Major.  I should say they’d give you a miss in baulk, for they must believe you invulnerable.  Still, I’m going with you to your room to see.”

When they reached it and threw open the door a figure half rose from the floor.  Barclay’s hand went out to it with levelled pistol, but the words arrested him.

“Khodawund! (Lord of the World!) Forgive me!  I did not know.  I did not know.”

It was the treacherous Rama who had tried to lead Dermot to his death.  He lay face to the ground.

“Damned liar!” growled Barclay in English.

“Did not know that thou wert leading me under the feet of the must elephant?” demanded Dermot incredulously.

“Aye, that I knew of course, Huzoor.  How can I deceive thee?  But thee I knew not; though the elephant Shiva-ji did, even in his madness.  It is not my fault.  I am not of this country.  I am a man of the Punjaub.  I know naught of the gods of Bengal.”