“We shall do it, Mr. Macgregor,” said the Dewan, confidently, “We are co-ordinating all the organisations in the Punjaub, Bombay, and Bengal, and we shall strike simultaneously.  Afghan help has been promised, and the Pathan tribesmen will follow the Amir’s regiments into India.  As I told you, the Chinese and Bhutanese invasion is certain, and there are neither troops nor fortifications along this frontier to stop it.”

“That’s right.  You’ll do it,” said Macgregor.  “The General Election comes off in a few months, and our party is sure of victory.  I am authorised to assure you that our first act will be to give India absolute independence.  So you can do what you like.  But don’t kill the white women and children—­at least, not openly.  They might not like it in England, though personally I don’t care if you massacre every damned Britisher in the country.  From what I’ve seen of ’em it’s only what they deserve.  The insolence I’ve met with from those whipper-snapper officers!  And the civil officials would be as bad, if they dared.  Then their women—­I wouldn’t like to say what I think of them.”

The Dewan turned to Chunerbutty.

“Go now; you have my leave.  His Highness wishes to see you.  I have sent him word that you are here.”

The engineer rose and salaamed respectfully.  Then, with a nod to Macgregor, he withdrew full of thought.  He had not known before that the conspiracy to expel the British was so widespread and promising.  He had not regarded it very seriously hitherto.  But he had faith in the Dewan, and the pledge of the great political party in England was reassuring.

Admitted to the presence of the Rajah, Chunerbutty found him reclining languidly on a pile of soft cushions on the floor of a tawdrily-decorated room.  The walls were crowded with highly-coloured chromos of Hindu gods and badly-painted indecent pictures.  A cut-glass chandelier hung from the ceiling, and expensive but ill-assorted European furniture stood about the apartment.  French mechanical toys under glass shades crowded the tables.

The Rajah was a fat and sensual-looking young man, with bloated face and bloodshot that eyes spoke eloquently of his excesses.  On his forehead was painted a small semicircular line above the eyebrows with a round patch in the middle, which was the sect-mark of the Saktas.  His white linen garments were creased and dirty, but round his neck he wore a rope of enormous pearls.  His feet were bare.  On a gold tray beside him were two liqueur bottles, one empty, the other only half full, and two or three glasses.

He looked up vacantly as Chunerbutty entered, then, recognising him, said petulantly: 

“Where have you been?  Why did you not come before?”

The engineer salaamed and seated himself on the carpet near him without invitation.  He held the Rajah far less in awe than the Prime Minister, for he had been the former’s boon-companion in his debauches too often to have much respect for him.