"I have heard a variation of that," said Kirby.

"Have you ever heard, sahib, that he who strikes the wearer of a
Northern knife is like to feel that knife? So Ranjoor Singh, the Jat,
is missing?"

"Yes," said Kirby, frowning, for he was not pleased to hear Ranjoor
Singh spoken of slightingly. A Jat may be a good enough man, and
usually is, but a Sikh is a Jat who is better.

"And if he is missing, what has that to do with me?" asked Yasmini.

"I have heard--men say--"

"Yes?" she said, laughing, for it amused her almost more than any
other thing to see dignity disarmed.

"Men say that you know most of what goes on in Delhi--"

"And--?" She was Impudence arrayed in gossamer.

Colonel Kirby pulled himself together; after all, it was not for
long that anything less than an army corps could make him feel
unequal to a situation. This woman was the loveliest thing he had
ever seen, but....

"I've come to find out whether Ranjoor Singh's alive or dead," he
said sternly, "and, if he's alive, to take him away with me."

She smiled as graciously as evening smiles on the seeded plains, and