“Dhulap Singh, is it not?  He is a secret agent of Gungadhura.”

“How do you know?  Why should the maharajah want my property?”

“He hunts high and low for the Sialpore treasure.  Jengal Singh, who built this house, was in the confidence of Gungadhura’s uncle, and a priest says there will be a clue found to the treasure beneath the floor of this house.”

“A likely tale indeed!”

“Very well, then—­lose thine house!”

Yasmini turned on a disdainful heel and started down-hill.  Mukhum Dass called after her, but she took no notice.  He sent the sweating parasite to bring her back, but she shook him off with execrations.  Mukhum Dass turned his mule and rode down-hill after her.

“True information has its price,” he said.  “Tell me your name.”

“That also has its price.”

He cackled dryly.  “Natives cost money only to their owners—­on a hundi.”  (Promissory note.)

“Nevertheless there is a price.”

“In advance?  I will give a half-rupee!”

Once more Yasmini resumed her way down-hill.  Again Mukhum Dass rode after her.

“At any rate name the price.”

“It is silence firstly; second, a security for silence.”

“The first part is easy.”

“Nay, difficult.  A woman can keep silence, but men chatter like the apes, in every coffee shop.”

His bargain-driver’s eyes watched hers intently, unable to detect the slightest clue that should start him guessing.  He was trying to identify a man, not a woman.

“How shall I give security for silence?” he asked.

“I already hold it.”

“How?  What?  Where?”

The money-lender betrayed a glimpse of sheer pugnacity that seemed to amuse his tormentor.

“Send thy jackal out of ear-shot, tiger.”

He snapped at his parasite angrily, and the man went away to sit down.  Then: 

“Where are the title-deeds of the house you say you own?” she asked him suddenly.

Mukhum Dass kept silence, and tried to smother the raging anger in his eyes.

“Was it Mukhum Dass or another, who went to the priest in the temple of Jinendra on a certain afternoon and requested intercession to the god in order that a title-deed might be recovered, that fell down the nullah when the snakes frightened a man’s mule and he himself fell into the road?  Or was it another accident that split that car of thine in two pieces?”

“Priests cackle like old women,” growled the money-lender.

“Nay, but this one cackled to the god.  Perhaps Jinendra felt compassionate toward a poor shroff (money-lender) who can not defend his suit successfully without that title-deed.  Jengal Singh died and his son, who ought to know, claims that the house was really sold to Dhulap Singh, who dallies with his suit because he suspects, but does not know, that Mukhum Dass has lost the paper—­eh?”