thou wilt not run away?'

I must not go beyond this tree, and there is also the stamp to be
considered.'

'I get no commission on the price of the stamp. Once more, what
manner of white boy art thou?'

'That shall be said in the letter, which is to Mahbub Ali, the
horse-dealer in the Kashmir Serai, at Lahore. He is my friend.'

'Wonder on wonder!' murmured the letter-writer, dipping a reed in
the inkstand. 'To be written in Hindi?'

'Assuredly. To Mahbub Ali then. Begin! I have come down with the
old man as far as Umballa in the train. At Umballa I carried the
news of the bay mare's pedigree.' After what he had seen in the
garden, he was not going to write of white stallions.

'Slower a little. What has a bay mare to do ... Is it Mahbub Ali,
the great dealer?'

'Who else? I have been in his service. Take more ink. Again. As the
order was, so I did it. We then went on foot towards Benares, but
on the third day we found a certain regiment. Is that down?'

'Ay, pulton,' murmured the writer, all ears.

'I went into their camp and was caught, and by means of the charm
about my neck, which thou knowest, it was established that I was