'Mahbub Ali has given me this proof.' Kim flipped the wad of
folded paper into the air, and it fell in the path beside the
man, who put his foot on it as a gardener came round the corner.
When the servant passed he picked it up, dropped a rupee - Kim
could hear the clink - and strode into the house, never turning
round. Swiftly Kim took up the money; but for all his training,
he was Irish enough by birth to reckon silver the least part of
any game. What he desired was the visible effect of action; so,
instead of slinking away, he lay close in the grass and wormed
nearer to the house.

He saw - Indian bungalows are open through and through - the
Englishman return to a small dressing-room, in a comer of the
veranda, that was half office, littered with papers and despatch-
boxes, and sit down to study Mahbub Ali's message. His face, by
the full ray of the kerosene lamp, changed and darkened, and Kim,
used as every beggar must be to watching countenances, took good
note.

'Will! Will, dear!' called a woman's voice. 'You ought to be in
the drawing-room. They'll be here in a minute.'

The man still read intently.

'Will!' said the voice, five minutes later. 'He's come. I can
hear the troopers in the drive.'

The man dashed out bareheaded as a big landau with four native
troopers behind it halted at the veranda, and a tall, black