Balked of his amusement, Rewa Gunga hurried past him, thrusting
the little maid aside, and led the way. King followed him into a
long room, whose walls were hung with richer silks than any he
remembered to have seen. In a great wide window to one side some
twenty, women began at once to make flute music.

Silken punkahs swung from chains, wafting back and forth a cloud
of sandalwood smoke that veiled the whole scene in mysterious,
scented mist. Through the open window came the splash of a fountain
and the chattering of birds, and the branch of a feathery tree
drooped near by. It seemed that the long white wall below was that
of Yasmini's garden.

"Be welcome!" laughed Rewa Gunga; "I am to do the honors, since
she is not here. Be seated, sahib."

King chose a divan at the room's farthest end, near tall curtains
that led into rooms beyond. He turned his back toward the reason
for his choice. On a little ivory-inlaid ebony table about ten
feet away lay a knife, that was almost the exact duplicate of the
one inside his shirt. Bronze knives of ancient date, with golden
handles carved to represent a woman dancing, are rare. The ability
to seem not to notice incriminating evidence is rarer still--rarest
of all when under the eyes of a native of India, for cats and hawks
are dullards by comparison to them. But King saw the knife, yet
did not seem to see it.

There was nothing there calculated to set an Englishman at ease.
In spite of the Rangar's casual manner, Yasmini's reception room