"What now?"

"One of Squadron D's men murdered in the bazaar this afternoon.
Body's in the morgue in charge of the police. 'Nother man who was
with him apparently missing. No explanation, and the p'lice say there
aren't any clues."

He twisted at a little black mustache and began to hum.

"Know where Ranjoor Singh is by any chance?" asked Kirby.

"Give me three guesses--no, two. One--he's raising hell with all
the police in Delhi. Two--he's at the scene of the murder, doing
detective work on his own. I heard he'd driven away--and, anyhow,
it's his squadron. Man's probably his second cousin, twenty or thirty
times removed."

"Send somebody to find him!" ordered Kirby.

"Say you want to have a word with him?"

Kirby nodded, and Warrington swaggered out, humming to himself
exactly as he hoped to be humming when his last grim call should
come, the incarnation of efficiency, awake and very glad. A certain
number of seconds after he had gone two mounted troopers clattered
out toward the bazaar. Ten minutes later Warrington returned.

"D Squadron's squattin' on its hunkers in rings an' lookin' gloomy,"
he said, as if he were announcing some good news that had a touch of
humor in it. "By the look of 'em you'd say they'd been passed over