It took longer to get the hamper ready than Tess expected, partly because it did not seem expedient to have the butler Chamu in the secret.  By the time she and her husband were up side by side in the dog-cart there was already a nearly full moon silvering the sky, and the jackals were yelping miserably on the hillside.  Before they reached the stifling town a slow breeze had moved the river-mist, until a curtain shut off the whole of the bazaar and merchants’ quarters from the better residential section where the palaces stood.  It was an ideal night for adventure; an almost perfect night for crime; one could step from street to street and leave no clue, because of the drifting vapor.

Here and there a solitary policeman coughed after they had passed, or slunk into a shadow lest they recognize and report him for sleeping at his post.  All sahibs have unreasonable habits, and not even a constable can guess which one will not make trouble for him.  An occasional stray dog yapped at the wheels, and more than once heads peered over roof-tops to try and glimpse them, because gossip—­especially about sahibs who are out after dark—­is a coinage of its own that buys welcome and refreshment almost anywhere.  But nothing in particular happened until the horse struck sparks from the granite flagstones outside Yasmini’s gate, and a sleepy Rajput sentry brought his rifle to the challenge.

Then it was not exactly obvious what to do next.  Tess felt perfectly confident on the high seat, with the pistol in her husband’s pocket pressing against her and his reassuring bulk between her and the sentry; but everywhere else was insecurity and doubt.  One does not as a rule descend from dog-carts after dark and present half-sheets of paper by way of passports for admission to Rajput palaces.  The sentry looked mildly interested, no more.  He had been so thoroughly warned and threatened in case of efforts to escape from within, that it did not enter his head that any one might want to enter.  However, since the dog-cart continued to stand still in front of the gate, he turned the guard out as a matter of routine; one never knew when sahibs will not complain about discourtesy.

The guard lined up at attention—­eight men and a risaldar (officer)—­double the regular number by Gungadhura’s orders.  The risaldar stepped up close to the dog-cart and spoke to the man he imagined was the sais, using, as was natural, the Rajput tongue.  But Dick Blaine only knew enough of the language for fetch and carry purposes—­not enough to deceive a native as to his nationality after the first two words.

“Now I feel foolish!” said Tess, and the risaldar of the guard thrust his bearded face closer, supposing she spoke to him.  Dick answered her.

“Shall I drive you home again, little woman?  Say, the word and we’re off.”

“Not yet.  I haven’t tried my ammunition.”

She pulled out Samson’s scribbled permit and was about to offer it to the guard.  But there was a risk that whatever she did would only arouse and increase his suspicions, and she offered it nervously.