about their color a dozen times within the hour. Once be would
even have sworn they were green.

The man was well-to-do, for his turban was of costly silk, and he
was clad in expensive jodpur riding breeches and spurred black
riding boots, all perfectly immaculate. The breeches, baggy above
and tight, below, suggested the clean lines of cat-like agility
and strength.

The upper part of his costume was semi-European. He was a regular
Rangar dandy, of the type that can be seen playing polo almost any
day at Mount Abu--that gets into mischief with a grace due to
practise and heredity--but that does not manage its estates too well,
as a rule, nor pay its debts in a hurry.

"My name is Rewa Gunga," he said in a low voice, looking up sidewise
at King a shade too guilelessly. Between Cape Comorin and the
Northern Ice guile is normal, and its absence makes the wise suspicious.

"I am Captain King."

"I have a message for you."

"From whom?"

"From her!" said the Rangar, and without exactly knowing why, or
being pleased with himself, King felt excited.

They were walking toward the station exit. King had a trunk check
in his hand, but returned it to pocket, not proposing just yet to let