sank on to a divan with the grace it needs a life of dancing to bestow.

"Sahib," she said, with a suddenly assumed air of candidness, "they
have told the truth. There is little that goes on in Delhi--in the
world--that I can not hear of if I will. The winds of the world flow
in and out of these four walls."

"Then where is Ranjoor Singh?" asked Colonel Kirby.

She did not hesitate an instant. He was watching her amazing eyes
that surely would have betrayed her had she been at a moment's loss;
they did not change nor darken for a second.

"How much, does the sahib know already?" she asked calmly, as if she
wished to spare him an unnecessary repetition of mere beginnings.

"A trooper of D Squadron--that's Ranjoor Singh's squadron--was
murdered in the bazaar this afternoon. The risaldar-major went to the
morgue to identify the body--drove through the bazaar, and possibly
discovered some clue to the murderer. At all events, he is known to
have entered a house in the bazaar, and that house is now in flames."

"The sahib knows that much? And am I to quell the flames?" asked
Yasmini.

She neither sat nor lay on the divan. She was curled on it, leaning
on an elbow, like an imp from another world.

"Who owns that house?" asked Kirby, since he could think of nothing
else to ask.