leave if she chooses! There is nobody like Yasmini in all the world!"

The Rangar was looking past them, facing the great gorge that lets
the North of Asia trickle down into India and back again when weather
and the tribes permit. His eyes had become interested in the distance.
King wondered why--and looked--and saw. Courtenay saw, too.

"Hail that man and bring him here!" he ordered.

Ismail, keeping his distance with ears and eyes peeled, heard
instantly and hurried off. He went like the wind and all three
watched in silence for ten minutes while he headed off a man near
the mouth of the Pass, stopped him, spoke to him and brought him along.
Fifteen minutes later an Afridi stood scowling in front of them with
a little letter in a cleft stick in his hand. He held it out and
Courtenay took it and sniffed.

"Well--I'll be blessed! A note'--sniff--sniff--"on scented paper!"
Sniff--sniff! "Carried down the Khyber in a split stick! Take it,
King--it's addressed to you."

King obeyed and sniffed too. It smelt of something far more subtle
than musk. He recognized the same strange scent that had been
wafted from behind Yasmini's silken hangings in her room in Delhi.
As he unfolded the note--it was not sealed--he found time for a
swift glance at Rewa Gunga's face. The Rangar seemed interested
and amused.

"Dear Captain King," the note ran, in English. "Kindly
be quick to follow me, because there is much talk of a