He began to write at once on a half-sheet of paper that he tore
from a letter he had in his pocket, setting down a row of figures
at the top and transposing into cypher as he went along.

"Yasmini has gone North. Is there any reason at your end why I
should not follow her at once?"

He addressed it in plain English to his friend the general at
Peshawur, taking great care lest the Rangar read it through those
sleepy, half-closed eyes of his. Then he tore the cypher from the
top, struck a match and burned the strip of paper and handed the
code telegram to Ismail, directing him carefully to a government
office where the cypher signature would be recognized and the
telegram given precedence.

Ismail stalked off with it, striding like Moses down from Sinai--
hook-nose--hawk-eye--flowing beard--dignity and all, and King settled
down to guard himself against the next attempt on his sovereign
self-command.

Now he chose to notice the knife on the ebony table as if he had
not seen it before. He got up and reached for it and brought it
back, turning it over and over in his hand.

"A strange knife," he said.

"Yes,--from Khinjan," said Rewa Gunga, and King eyed him as one
wolf eyes another.