"Where to?" asked Warrington.

"The club."

Warrington jumped in after him, and the driver sent his pair
straining at the traces as if they had a gun behind them. Three
hundred yards beyond the barrack wall Colonel Kirby knelt on the
front seat and poked the driver from behind.

"Oh! You?" he remarked, as he recognized a native risaldar of D
Squadron. Until the novelty wears off it would disconcert any man to
discover suddenly that his coachman is a troop commander.

"D'you know a person named Yasmini?" he asked.

"Who does not, sahib?"

"Drive us to her house--in a hurry!"

The immediate answer was a plunge as the whip descended on both
horses and the heavy carriage began to sway like a boat in a beam-sea
swell. They tore through streets that were living streams of human
beings--streams that split apart to let them through and closed like
water again behind them. With his spurred heels on the front seat,
Warrington hummed softly to himself as ever, happy, so long as there
were only action.

"I've heard India spoken of as dead," he remarked after a while.
"Gad! Look at that color against the darkness!"