THE GATE OF

RINGING SANDS

Ottwell Binns

1927

Contents

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

Chapter 13 | Chapter 14

Chapter 15 | Chapter 16

Chapter 17 | Chapter 18

Chapter 19 | Chapter 20

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Chapter 1

"COLONEL Cavenagh."

As Louis Claverdon spoke the name he gave a sign. The chuprassi salaamed profoundly, and, without a word, threw open the door by which he stood, salaaming again as the caller passed to the room beyond. The door clicked . behind him, shutting out the prying world; and the grey-haired, ruddy-faced man of the temple of secrets, which that room represented, swung round , in his chair and nodded cheerfully to his visitor.

"Glad to see you, Claverdon. You're on time. Take a chair.... The cigars are there on the table at your elbow. 'Scuse me one minute."

He turned to the desk again, scrawled a short note, and sealed it; whilst, with a deliberation that evidenced character, Claverdon selected and lit a cigar. Then the man at the desk touched a bell-push, and when it was answered by a subordinate, who appeared through a second door, handed to him the sealed note with curt instruction to despatch it immediately. When the door had clicked behind the subordinate, Colonel Cavenagh turned and faced his visitor, who sat waiting for him to begin. There was a moment's silence, then the colonel smiled.

"No curiosity, Louis?"

"Heaps!" replied the younger man. "But questions uninvited are a vice."

Colonel Cavenagh laughed. "That's rough on me. I was just going to ask you one."

"Permission accorded, sir," answered Claverdon, laughing back.

Then Cavenagh asked his question.

"Ever hear of The Gate of Ringing Sands?"

A quick light of interest leaped in Claverdon's steel-blue eyes at the words, then he nodded:

"Once."

"Ah!" Colonel Cavenagh, in whose hands the threads of India's secret service met, leaned forward a little, and he asked laconically, "When? Where?"

"Six weeks back, in a caravanserai at Leh... Speaker was an Afghan horse-coper. I was interested— naturally; the more so as in the night someone knifed the man."

"You learned nothing?"

"Nothing, sir. You can't talk to the dead; and I guess this is why the horse-coper died."

Colonel Cavenagh nodded, and sat for a moment or two lost in thought. Claverdon waited, staring out of the window, apparently absorbed In. the kaleidoscopic life of Delhi, until a movement on the part of the other drew his eyes from the street. Cavenagh had turned to his desk; and was opening a drawer. A second later he handed something to his visitor, something that flashed in the strong light.

"Know anything of that?"

Claverdon looked at it, and the; interest in his eyes quickened. The thing he looked at was a small piece of green jade, translucent as water, roughly carved into the semblance of a natural gateway or entrance to a cave in a jagged hill, and above the gateway was Mahomet's crescent moon and single star. He stared at it for quite a long time, and at last replied briefly:— "Nothing. It is new to me."

"And to me — until yesterday. That's why I sent for you, because, unless I am mistaken, that is a picture of The Gate of Ringing Sands."

Claverdon looked at the jade again without offering comment, and after a pause the other proceeded.

"That was sent by Waldron, who is on special service up in Russian Turkestan. For seven whole months there has been no word from him, and I was thinking that he had slipped off the pay-roll for good; when yesterday there came a big Tibetan caravan master, name of Nima Tashi―"

"I know him. A jovial heathen — with a laugh like rolling thunder. Knows the Pamirs and all the passes as I know the Chandni Chowk. He was my shikari when I got that Ovis Poli head."

"You'd say he was honest?"

"To his salt," answered Claverdon. "He's of the adventurer breed — once a red lama, later a bandit, and latterly, trader; but a jewel of a man in a tight corner."

The colonel nodded.

"Waldron trusted him, and that speaks volumes. It seems they were old acquaintances, and Waldron, who is living in some flea-bitten hole up Hissar way, took a chance to pass word of himself and to send that bauble along. He doesn't say how he came by it, but thinks the thing is tremendously important. His note says that several times he has heard The Gate of Ringing Sands mentioned; and he seems to think there's some tremendous devilry brewing up on the Pamirs with Russian influence for the pot-stick to stir it."

"That's likely enough; sir. The Bolsheviks are the bête noire of High Asia just now."

"Yes, and of Europe, too!" Cavenagh was silent a moment, biting his bristling moustache, then he grunted. "Waldron isn't far from the truth. I have reports from three other sources, all mentioning that confounded gate. 888 has noted it twice from Bokhara; C.25 in Khotan has a cryptic note about it; and a man at Tashkent asks if there is any news of such gateway."

"And my Afghan—"

"Yes! That's a red seal on The Gate. A man isn't knifed for nothing, even in a lice-infested serai in Leh. And there's where we are. Five references to The Gate; and that piece of jade, which is plainly a symbol. It is the mystery of the thing that is the trouble."

"Maybe Dick Waldron―"

"Waldron is on a special line. He―" Cavenagh broke off sharply, and his grey eyes kindled with a sudden light of excitement. "By all the gods of Asia!" he said half-whisperingly.

Claverdon watched him as he jumped to his feet, and began to pace the room, a perturbed look, on his face. Then, quite suddenly, he ejaculated:

"The two things may be two sides of the same thing!" He stopped and turned to the younger man. "You know about that affair at Baltaz?"

"Meaning the abduction and return of Miss Wargrave?"

"Yes... but the girl was not returned!"

Claverdon whistled sharply. "Phew!" ."That was an official lie for special purposes, to help us to get at the bottom of the business."

"I never heard the details."

"They're pretty bad! The girl, who was the resident's niece, on a visit, was riding with her aunt and a syce. Less than a mile from the Residency they were attacked in broad daylight. The resident's wife was knocked senseless, the syce had his throat cut, and the girl, utterly disappeared— abducted, of course. That's all that is known— except a line from Waldron, who was put on the job of finding her, saying he believed he was on the track at last."

Claverdon whistled again softly, then remarked: "The connection between that affair and this"— he thrust the jade bauble forward— "isn't absolutely pellucid."

"No. And it mayn't exist. But there is the possibility. The man whom I suspect of being at the bottom of that affair up at Baltaz is Rahman Ali―"

"The son of the reigning Khan?"

"Yes. He tried to scupper the old man in the usual border way of the too-enterprising aspirant for a throne; but was prevented. He fled the district, breathing threatenings and slaughter against the Khan and the Resident— and he's a popular figure to the Baltazians. That's why no word of what happened when Miss Wargrave was kidnapped can be heard in Baltaz. It isn't that the tribesmen don't know— it is just that they won't speak."

"And Ringing Sands, sir? What's the link between Miss Wargrave and―"

"Rahman Ali— for a blind shot! I never thought of it until a moment ago. But if there's trouble brewing behind the passes you can count him in. He is ambitious, popular with his own folk, and revengeful — just the tool for the Asiatic Reds to handle against us. But it is no more than a guess; and until we know what The Gate of Ringing Sands stands for we can't be sure, I want you to take up that particular thread. It will be difficult... risky "

Claverdon gave a grunting laugh, and the Colonel smiled.

"That's beside the mark, I know... Well, you must get on the business at once. Here are copies of all references to this place of mystery, and you had better hang on to that piece of jade for the present... There's the fellow who brought it— Nima-Tashi! I kept him, thinking he might be of use. You would like to see him?"

"I'd like to see few men more, sir."

"He is up at Chutter Ghose's shop, where I sent him out of harm's way."

"You mean out of the way of observation and temptation, sir?"

"Same thing. For a man of the Hills Delhi might prove the devil of a place."

"I'll go and talk with him."

"Do! When you came in I sent a note to Ghose to say you would be along within half an hour, so you'll be expected."

Colonel Cavenagh thrust the clipped papers towards him.  Claverdon took them without comment; bestowed them and the carved jade safely, then looked at the door.

"I'll report again before I jump off, sir."

"Do!"

The younger man nodded and passed from the office by the door which he had entered, acknowledged the chuprassi's salaam, and made his way into the street, and without hurry began to walk in the direction of the Chandni Chowk. When he arrived at that Silver Street, which of old had the reputation of being the richest street in the world, odorous of mingled incense and garbage, he picked his way-through the chattering variegated crush of natives, garlanded bulls, wandering donkeys, and thieving goats until he came to the tawdrily painted booth that was his destination.

Chutter Ghose called himself a jeweller; but his shop was a museum. There were jewels there that were worth the lives of many men; but there were other things also. Devil mask's from Tibet, rare armour from Japan, brazen images of Buddha, priceless vases, jewelled tulwars, Chinese ivories, silken hangings— all the rich clutter of things that may be found in the store of one who is jeweller, antiquary, and moneylender in one.

A double curtain hung in the doorway, and, pushing it aside, Claverdon stepped from the hot brightness of the street into the shaded light within. At the glass counter-case which split the store in half he found the proprietor— a withered, brown man, grey with age, in semi-European costume who was haggling with a slim native over the price of a jewel-hilted dagger. The jeweller looked up as Claverdon entered, but gave no sign of recognition. The Englishman himself kept, a face as blank as a wall, and waited, knowing that until the haggling was done patience must be his portion.

The driving of a bargain in the Chandni Chowk is never a hurried thing, but to Claverdon waiting there it seemed that the haggling was unduly prolonged. He began to grow interested in the customer, who, as it seemed, was less interested in the jewelled dagger than in certain rather stertorous sounds which came from behind a curtain of beaded reeds that covered a doorway at the far end of the store, leading, as Claverdon knew, to Chutter Ghose's private offices.

Again and again the bargainer flashed curious glances in that direction, and once Claverdon himself looked towards the curtain as he caught a rumbling voice speaking in unmistakable Tibetan, though the words did not reach him clearly. It seemed to him that the slim native was cocking his ears to listen; and, looking round, he espied a mirror, which, as he thought, would give him a reflection of the man's face.

He moved a little, and, instead of staring at the native's back, watched his imaged face in the glass. The man's eyes were turned downward towards the dagger which he held in his hands; but his face had a tense, strained, expectant look, and once the eyes were lifted to stare into the mirror, which reflected also the curtained doorway whence the sounds came.

The rumbling Tibetan voice grew louder, an answering voice was raised in protest; there was a movement of the curtain, reflected in the mirror, and, with the light clattering sound of the beads in his ears, Claverdon saw the curtain parted, and a burly-figured, broad faced man half emerge— his friend, Nima-Tashi. The Englishman was about to speak, when Chutter Ghose's withered eyes flashed him a warning, whilst almost in the same second he looked frowningly at the Tibetan.

Whether the latter saw the look or not Claverdon never knew, for in that instant he caught a flash, and saw the customer swing round,. his hand with the blade of the dagger between finger and thumb back over his shoulder. He had seen similar attitudes more than once, and, knowing what it portended, had cried out in swift warning:— "Look out, Nima!" At the same time, he leaped towards the man who held the dagger.

He was a second too late. Like a streak of light, the knife flashed past his eyes, and the would-be assassin ran for the outer door swiftly as a greyhound.

Claverdon caught Nima-Tashi's rumbling laughter, and, as he started to follow the aggressor, flung a glance over his shoulder, and saw the big Tibetan in the act of lifting himself from the floor, where, as it appeared, he had dropped before the flying death could reach him. Re-assured, the Englishman followed the fleeing native. But the latter reached the street whilst Claverdon had still four strides to make, and when he reached the open the fugitive was already swallowed up in the thronging native life of the Chandni Chowk. He knew that pursuit would be utterly vain. As well seek one particular leaf in a forest as seek a particular native whose face he had seen only in a glass, in that welter of natives in the street. Halting, he swung on his heel and re-entered the shop.

"Sahib," began Chutter Ghose apologetically, through chattering teeth, "I did not dream that murderer would use the knife, and how should I guess that Tibetan yak would display―"

"Ho-o-o! Chutter Ghose, if the yak had thee beyond the passes, it is not thus that thou wouldst crow."

There was an edge to the laughter which accompanied the words, and the Englishman, knowing his friend, made haste to intervene.

"Nima―"

"Have no fear, my friend-of-old. What is done in the Hills is not law in the Plains, and this seller of trinkets I shall not shake lest his teeth fall out. But it is good to see one who knows the snows in this cooking-oven where one sweats like a loaded camel under the sun. Why I am kept here when I might be on my way to the Hills "

"It is that you should see me, Nima; and when we have talked, maybe we shall go beyond the passes together on the track of something with longer horns than your yaks. And there will be many rupees "

"Rupees are good, but the company of a man is better, my friend. Let us get the talk done that we may begin the march."

Claverdon looked at Chutter Ghose, who promptly led the way to the door of his office. A young native who might have been the jeweller's grandson was within, and at a nod from Ghose he passed to the outer store. Claverdon took a stool that offered; the Tibetan seated himself on the floor, and the owner of the shop, after thoughtfully closing a door behind the curtains, remained standing with his shoulder against it. Without preliminary Claverdon began:

"You know the man who threw the knife, Nima?"

"Nay, my friend, how should I? These brown monkeys have the look of new-littered whelps to me."

"Then you have never seen him before?" asked the Englishman, with a frown at Chutter Ghose, whose dark eyes flashed resentment at the comparison.

"Never! And if I saw him again I should not remember. Have I not said―"

"And you, Chutter Ghose— have you seen him?"

The jeweller nodded. "Yesterday... when the Colonel Sahib sent me this man to lodge. He had not been here an hour when that knife-thrower came in to sell me a pearl. Never was such a slow chafferer, and as he stared about him all the time I had a thought that maybe he was a looter of stores. When he departed, after a last inspection of my shop, I followed him to the door, and beheld him speak to a man who sits to sell vegetables in the street, and whose face is strange. The dealer in green things is there still, but he sells nothing, and as I have seen keeps observation on my door, noting who comes, and goes on watching maybe few the departure of this man of Tibet, which— I know not. But if is not comforting, For if they should a riot provoke, that they may find this man, my store would be looted―"

"That man who sold the pearl, and who came again to purchase the knife," intervened Claverdon — "he was a stranger?"

"Beyond question. I had not seen him before. He was new to me, as also was the jade ornament in his turban—"

"Ah!" Claverdon produced the carved jade which Cavenagh had given him.

"Was it like that?"

Chutter Ghose's withered face lit up with recognition.

"The very fellow," he said, with a touch of excitement. "Whence came that, sahib?"

"From the North―"

"Aye, from Waldron Sahib," broke in Nima-Tashi. "It is the Gate of Ringing Sands, which for aught I know may be The Gate of Hell and ten thousand devils."

"The Gate of Ringing Sands!" The dark eyes of the seller of jewels flashed with interest. "I have heard that name "

"Where?"

"On the lips of the woman Narani— but yesterday; when I waited on her with a string of pearls that, one is to buy for her. She named the place carelessly, but her eyes were watching, and I knew that she had spoken it to learn if I had knowledge of it."

Claverdon considered a moment, a clouded look in his eyes, then he said:

"I have heard of the woman."

As have I," laughed Nima-Tashi. "She is a woman of wit. Once I took a load of rifles for a man of hers through the passes to Termez—"

Claverdon whistled sharply. "You are sure she was behind the man, Nima? That is serious—"

"Nay, wait! The tale is not ended." His rolling laugh filled the room. "There was money to be paid for them, much money; and she had sent the without the breech-bolts, lest it should not be paid and the rifles stolen."

"But the money was paid."

"Aye!" The Tibetan rocked with mirth. "But the breech-bolts have not been sent.... which is a woman's trick— or a Jew's."

Claverdon turned abruptly to Chutter Ghose. "You said you knew Narami."

"Who is there in Delhi that does not? She is a jewel of a woman the most beautiful―"

"Worn smooth with much traffic, hey?"

"No, sahib. She is like a flower lustrous as the lotus and not of the blood of Hind."

"A white woman?"— the Englishman was startled.

"I said not that. I do not know her race, though I have heard she was of the Russians. Every princeling and hill-rajah is her friend, and there was one of Baltaz whose flesh wasted for her."

"Rahman Ali?"

"That was the man! And never a ruffian comes wandering south from the Hills but is welcome—"

"And she spoke of The Gate of Ringing Sands?"

"In my hearing, sahib."

Claverdon considered a moment, a very thoughtful look in his eyes. Then he asked sharply: "Narani is well known to you, Chutter Ghose?"

"A customer only. I am the dust on which she sets her jewelled feet. !

If you desire to see her I cannot help—"

"But help is with me," boomed Nima-Tashi cheerfully. "There is the matter of these breech-bolts to talk over, and also, as this seller of trinkets says, a hill-man is ever welcome to her."

"That is most true," agreed Chutter softly.

Again Claverdon gave himself to thought. The watch kept on the jeweller's shop, the attack made on the Tibetan were significant things. They proved not merely that Nima-Tashi's presence there was known, but also that there was real need for the precaution which Cavenagh had taken. Unless events lied, the reason for the Tibetan's presence in Delhi was known to someone who feared what he might reveal; and so long as he was in the city there was risk for the man of the hills. A visit to the house of the mysterious Narani might involve graver risk, but there was the possibility of new knowledge to be won; and Nima-Tashi was a man to whom risk was the salt of life. He spoke abruptly.

"Nima, we will go to Narani's house together, at dusk.''

"Together! Ho! Ho!" Nima laughed: "But 'tis I of the Hills whom this woman of the Plains will see, for she loves those who come with the wind in their beards."

Claverdon smiled and gave directions.

"There is the way over the roofs, Chutter Ghose. I shall be there where it opens on the street one hour after sunset. You will bring Nima to me."

"Certainly, sahib."

"Then I go now, but till the hour of meeting you must be here, Nima—"

"Like a wolf In a hole," laughed the Tibetan. "Have no fear, my friend. We will see this woman Narani together."

"Good!" Claverdon turned on his heel, and, accompanied by Chutter Ghose, made his way to the shop. There, in range of the doorway, he stood for a moment staring into the crowded street.

"The seller of vegetables―"

"Is in front, as straight as a bird flies," broke in the jeweller quickly.

Claverdon's eyes ranged to and fro without fixing themselves upon the man in question, but in their ranging noted that the man seated among a basket or two of green stuff made no attempt to attract customers; and was apparently indifferent to the fact that a wandering goat was nibbling at the contents of one of his baskets.

Unmoving, his eyes half-closed, the native sat there, seemingly lost in meditation. But when the Englishman moved forward, and for a second stood framed in the doorway, the man's eyes opened, and apparently for the first time became aware of the marauding goat. He shouted something, and from behind him a native boy appeared and drove the goat away, whilst his master continued to shout what may or may not have been objurgations, but which for Claverdon were lost in the babel of the street.

The Englishman smiled, and without so much as another glance at the vegetable-seller went on his way down the street, perfectly conscious that a dozen yards behind him the huckster's boy was following him like a shadow.

Chapter 2

THE EVENING breeze was blowing, and It was almost dark when Louis Claverdon stepped out of a gharri at a point not far from the Chandni Chowk; and, after a casual look round, plunged into a dark passage, along which he seemed for the moment to be the only pedestrian. Half-way down he halted sharply to listen, but heard nothing; and, after a moment, resumed his way. The passage turned into another, narrow and dark, which ran between high walls blind as a bat's eye, and which, unreached by the breeze of evening, kept the accumulated heat of the day, so that walking down it was like walking between the sides of some huge oven. This alley also was deserted, and, though Claverdon listened carefully, the only sound other than the hum that came from the Chandni Chowk was the echo of his own footfall; and, when he paused, as he did more than once, no sound whatever.

After the last halt, reassured, he began to walk more quickly, but when the passage made an abrupt turn he halted again, and as he did so caught the pad of naked feet coming on behind him. That he was followed he had little doubt, and, since that was altogether undesirable, he considered swiftly how to make sure. There was one way, he decided, and that was to meet the shadower in the gate.

Instantly reversing, his direction, he began to walk back along the blind-walled passage, moving quietly, and yet making sufficient noise to be heard the whole length of those echoing Walls. He had taken no more than half a dozen steps when he stopped suddenly, and as he did so distinctly heard the pad of running feet receding from him.

That he was being shadowed was now beyond question, and he began to consider how he might deal with the shadower. Listening, his ear against the stone wall, he heard the running man halt, and guessed that the trailer meant to return as soon as it was safe to do so. An idea came to him, and he himself began to run, following his original direction.

The noise of his steps filled that narrow way with echoing sound, and when he reached the turn again, swinging round, he marked time quickly, without progressing, to keep, up the volume of sound. Then, halting abruptly, he listened. As he expected, the shadower was following at a run. Crouching low, he waited, a grim smile on his lean face.

The sound of naked feet came nearer, a white-robed figure, ghastly in the dusk, came round the corner, and when it was within a yard of him Claverdon leaped and struck at the same time. Without cry or groan the shadower collapsed on the stones and lay quite still. Paying no heed to the prostrate man, the Englishman hurried forward again.

Two more turns in the tortuous passage brought him to an alley, into which he swung, and at the far end of it he rapped thrice on a door, making a distinct pause between each knock. At the third knock the door opened, and Chutter Ghose's voice addressed him.

"Sahib "

"Yes! Quick! Is Nima-Tashi there?"

"Here, my jewel," the Tibetan himself answered with a chuckle.

"Then come; we must hurry, lest we be followed."

"Ho-o!" Nima laughed to himself. "A man would, think we go to steal the woman."

"Silence, Nima! Walls have ears in a city—"

"Aye, and women have tongues," replied the hill-man in a laughing whisper, but promptly fell silent, as Claverdon began to lead him out of the alley.

They traversed many narrow ways, mostly deserted, crossed two larger arteries of traffic where there were natives in plenty, and presently plunged into a wider way, where tall pretentious houses lifted rickety balconies towards the sky. They followed this without haste until they came to one, which, on the street, seemed window-less, and which had a tall, narrow doorway, dark and forbidding of aspect. Before this Claverdon halted, and as he did so Nima-Tashi asked a question:—

"This is the house of the woman, Narani, my friend?"

"Yes!" answered Claverdon. "I shall give your name and my own."

"So!" the Tibetan answered. "She will see a hill-man even if she denies a sahib who—"

Claverdon's knock cut short the boast, and a moment later the door swung open revealing a chuprassi in a white uniform, with a scarlet sash. The soft light of a swing lamp in the hall fell directly on their faces, and the chuprassi scrutinised them carefully whilst he waited to hear their request.

"Your mistress, we would see her," said Claverdon crisply.

"There are many who would do , that," answered the man loftily; "but not all have the felicity. This door is not for all to pass."

"But It is open to us," answered Claverdon, thrusting a card forward with a gold mohur underneath it. The chuprassi felt the coin without looking at it, then nodded.

"It is open, but it is for my mistress to say if she receives."

"Good! Take the card. Ask her," answered Claverdon, with a hint of command, and, since a street has eyes, as well as ears, stepped into the lamp-lit hall, followed by the Tibetan.

"Close the door. We will wait Narani's pleasure here."

The chuprassi, a little impressed, salaamed, closed the door, and disappeared through a curtained doorway.

The Tibetan's eyes roamed round the carved woodwork of the hall hung with Rawalia curtains, marked a priceless vase on a pedestal with contempt, and rested on the lamp.

"Silver," he ejaculated in a loud whisper. "The chains also. Five hundred rupees did not purchase it."

Claverdon gave no heed to the remark He was watching the curtained doorway, listening intently. From somewhere, overhead, as it seemed to him, came the sound of flutes, arid the air was heavy with the perfume of burning sandalwood. Behind the curtains there were faint sounds of movement; and once a burst of feminine laughter which drew Nima-Tashi from his brigandly contemplation of the lamp and made him stare towards the curtains with rollicking eyes.

"A nest of doves," he whispered. "Heard you the cooing, my friend?"

Claverdon, sure that there were ears for every word spoken by those who waited in that hall, signalled him to be silent; and himself listened intently to the sound of approaching feet. The chuprassi appeared from behind a curtain other than that which hid the door of his departure, and salaamed.

"My mistress will receive you. This way, sahib."

He held the curtain aside, and Claverdon moved towards the doorway thus revealed, followed by his companion. A flight of dark stairs appeared, and as he began to mount them the sound of flutes which he had previously heard grew clearer. The stairs turned, and at the turn were very dark, but not too dark to hide a recess in which, alert and watchful, stood a big, bearded man whom he guessed was one of Narani's guards. The man gave no sign as they passed, but behind him Claverdon caught the Tibetan's hoarse whisper:

"A bar on the door! That man had a tulwar in his hand."

The stairs turned again, and a second man was revealed, the tulwar in his hand openly displayed, his whole aspect fierce and forbidding. Again Nima-Tashi, irrepressible, offered a comment.

"A fool hurrying down these stairs might stop most suddenly. This jewel is well guarded."

There was a third turn in the stairs, with a third watcher there, upon whom fell the soft light from a lamp on the landing above. Claverdon stared at the man closely. His head was bare, his skin the colour of copper, his eyes fierce and wild, his features were hawk-like, and he was bearded like an Afghan, whilst the light flashed on the naked blade in his hand.

"A hill-man," whispered the Tibetan. "Untamed as an eagle. I begin to breathe the mountain air. But, my friend, how shall we leave if those bar the way?... I have my knife but..."

Claverdon made a sign which silenced him, and stepped on a mirrored landing, partly covered with a priceless rug that was camel-borne from Persia. The lamp again was of silver, studded with turquoise, and drew the Tibetan's eyes.

"A lamp of price, my friend. Narani's cage is well gilded. She—"

He broke off as a pair of heavy silken curtains in front of them parted suddenly, revealing a tall serving man clothed in immaculate white with a silken sash of flaming scarlet. He signalled to them to enter, and held aside the curtain for them to pass through. The doorway opened on a short; wide corridor, from the farther end of which, through another curtained doorway, came the music of flutes which Claverdon had heard during the time of waiting downstairs.

As they advanced the man struck a copper gong, and scarcely had the vibrating sound of it begun when the curtains in front opened; a little cloud of sandalwood smoke drifted towards them, and through it, in the frame the curtains made, the two men saw a vision which made Nima-Tashi ejaculate in a hoarse whisper— "A houri from the Prophet's Paradise. I turn Moslem this very night."

The girl, she was no more, who stood bowing between the curtains, was indeed houri-like. Gauzy silks revealed the. beauty of form and limbs, her face was like a flower, her dark eyes danced with laughter, and the hand which beckoned them forward was the smallest that Claverdon had ever seen. As they strode on, she stepped aside, laughed luringly at Claverdon, and made a little moue at the Tibetan which caused the latter to swear under his breath.

Then the flute music burst on them. In a full tide of sound, and as he halted on the farther side of the curtain, through the haze of the scented smoke, Claverdon became aware of many things at once.

The chamber on which they had entered was a large one, with hangings of marvellous richness. A silken punkah filled the place with moving air. A large window with a balcony from which the music came was almost directly opposite him, and over the heads of the women-flautists, in the dark azure of the sky, he saw a great star gleaming. In the middle of the floor half a dozen dancing women were engaged in some slow sinuous and rhythmic movement, gauzy garments floating in the air, anklets jingling, faces and forms alike expressing all the languorous abandon of the ancient Bast.

Nima-Tashi caught his breath with a grunt. "By all the gods of—"

Claverdon did not hear the rest. Beyond the dancers, through the haze, he had caught sight of two other people— the one a woman seated on a rich divan talking to the other, a dark-skinned man dressed in white silk, who lounged by the side of the divan in an attitude that expressed something warmer than mere admiration for the woman on whom his eyes were fixed in utter disregard of the dancing girls.

There were others near them— a couple of gauze-clad girls who from time to time fanned their mistress with jewelled fans; two or three more behind them who, statuesque and immobile, as plainly waited the woman's pleasure; but all Claverdon's attention was for the woman on the divan whom he guessed to be the Narani whom he had come to see.

"Behold Narani," grunted Nima behind him. "A golden wonder!"

The woman on the divan, as Claverdon was quick to own, justified the Tibetan's description. That she was tall he guessed rather than saw, and her figure was of royal mould. Her hair was a cloud of gold, her features classically regular but afire with an intelligence that none of the dancing women had; and her eyes were, as he thought, black as night, eyes that seemed to be staring straight through him, and which if they saw him gave no sign. Her dress had nothing of the gauziness of the dancers or of the houri who had opened the curtains for the visitors. Her only jewellery was a chain of gold that served for girdle about her waist, a pair of diamonds that twinkled in the lobes of her small ears; and a ring of price that shot fire in the soft lamp-light streaming down upon her.

All this Claverdon noted as he stood there waiting till the dance should end, and as he watched he decided that through the faint mist of smoke these dark eyes were evidently apprising him lazily, leisurely, as if time were not; and as if to keep him waiting there part of a studied purpose. Convinced of that deliberate appraisement, he himself turned his eyes to study the woman's companion.

The man was young, lissom as a sapling, keen-faced, hawk-eyed, with a high imperious look; and plainly of the Hills rather than of the Plains. He considered the man carefully. That white silk dress proclaimed him almost certainly of the followers of the prophet, the imperious air bespoke a regal, masterful spirit; the jewel at his throat Indicated that he was not poor. What he was doing here—

Unexpectedly Narani clapped her hands twice, breaking on his thoughts. The flute-players stopped instantly; the dancers faded away into the recesses. of the chamber, leaving, clear the floor space between the divan, and Claverdon. He saw Narani turn and speak to the man at her side, with an indolent wave of her hand indicating the waiting pair. Apparently becoming aware of them for the first time, the man flashed a sharp, resentful glance in their direction, and appeared to make some protest. Narani, however, made a gesture of dismissal, and the man bowed and began to walk towards the outlet near which the waiting pair stood.

Claverdon considered him carefully. Tall, small-hipped, with head well set on the shoulders and carrying himself with native grace, he was a handsome figure of a man. As he drew nearer he stared insolently at Claverdon, and then, with a flash of curiosity at Nima-Tashi.

The latter, standing behind Claverdon, gave a chuckle.

"An eaglet of the Hills, my friend," he whispered. "And an eater of fire."

The description was justified. The man had indeed a high, bold look. The fierceness of the North was in his sharp-cut features; its untameable spirit flashed in his eyes; its pride proclaimed itself in his carriage and bearing. His eyes leaving Nima-Tashi met Claverdon's in challenging glance, and quite suddenly, the latter had an intuition that some odd thing was in the man's mind. Scarcely had the idea come to him when the thing happened.

Two yards away the man paused in his stride; his eyes flashed hatred, and a second later, quite deliberately, he expressed his contempt by spitting on the floor almost at Claverdon's feet.

"By the Holy―" growled Nima-Tashi, but was instantly checked by Claverdon, whose eyes were fixed, not on the man's face, but on the jewel in his turban; for pale against the darker sheen of the silk, there was a jade ornament that, so far as he could see was the exact replica of the one in his own pocket.

A little touch of excitement quickened, his heart-beat as he made the discovery, then his eyes met the flashing dark ones again, and in the three seconds of time before the man passed him he strove to fix the man's face in his memory, and turned to watch him as the swung aside for his egress, for to know a man's back is sometimes almost as helpful for recognition as knowledge of his face.

The man passed on, the curtains swished back in their place, and then he caught the Tibetan's voice speaking in a stage whisper.

"The woman signals us."

At the word he began to move across the open space in the direction of  Narani, conscious that she was watching him closely, and doubly conscious of his own surging curiosity. A couple of yards from the divan he halted, bowed, and then met Narani's eyes. Looking at them across the room ne had thought that they were black, but now he saw that they were blue, the darkest blue he had ever seen and of a clouded brightness like flame veiled in smoke. They were, moreover, no open book in which a man might read her thought. They saw without revealing, and not even curiosity was betrayed by them as they passed from him to Nima-Tashi standing behind him.

For a moment the silence was noticeable, broken only by the light swish of the punkah and the plash of a fountain somewhere in the darkness outside; then the woman looked at the card held in the palm of her shapely hand, and spoke:—

"Well, Mr. Claverdon, you wish to talk with me?"

The question was asked quietly, in a clear, bell-like voice, without the faintest hint of curiosity in the tones.

"Yes," answered Claverdon, with laconic directness. Then he glanced at the attendant houris about her. That Narani understood the glance was proved a moment later, for she gave a signal, and instantly the flautists and her personal attendants followed the dancers into obscurity. Then she looked at Claverdon again, and now she permitted a little wondering light to stray into the fathomless eyes.

The Englishman hesitated, a little uncertain of his ground; and she looked from him to Nima-Tashi; and again the golden voice broke the silence.

"Perhaps you, O man of the Hills, have something—?"

"Aye!" boomed the Tibetan, never at a loss for words. "There is a matter of rifles that I took to Termez for a man of thine... They were without breech-bolts, and I came near to being slain for another's fault. Maybe thou wilt give word for the breech-bolts to be sent?"

The woman laughed, and the laugh transformed her.

"Gold mohurs were paid to thee, yak-driver, were they not? What are the missing breech-bolts to thee? Maybe the lack of them has saved thy yaks and their drivers from the hasty bullet."

Her rippling laughter was infectious, and Nima-Tashi's risibility was quick to respond. His rolling laughter, filled the room, drowning the, sound of hers, as he answered mirthfully:

"Aye, as thou sayest, I had the gold mohurs!"

"And Muhammed Khan had the rifles."

"And thou the price of them— and the breech-bolts," laughed the Tibetan. "It was a good division."

"Maybe the bolts will be sent when the time is ripe for the use of the rifles," answered Narani, with careless laughter, and then her eyes, clouded once more, turned to Claverdon, and her beautiful face grew masklike.

"It was not about rifles without bolts you came, Mr. Claverdon?" she asked politely, her words, as Claverdon marked, without any noticeable accent, though he was sure she was not English.

"No!" he answered laconically, "It was about that!"

As he spoke he thrust forward the piece of carved jade which Cavenagh had given him, and had the satisfaction of seeing Narani momentarily moved out of her pose of incurious calm. A startled look came on her face, the lambent eyes glowed, her whole demeanour expressed an intense interest. A second later, the look was gone, the glow had faded, her demeanour was again impassive, and as she looked at Claverdon she appeared the most unmoved woman in the world.

"A jade trinket!" she remarked, indifferently. Then a little mocking note came in her voice.

"I did not know you were a jewel merchant, Mr. Claverdon.... You wish to sell that little ornament?"

Louis Claverdon laughed. That mocking note had told him that Narani knew very well the nature of his vocation, and the knowledge put him more at his ease.

"No, Narani," he answered carelessly. "It is not for sale; but I should like you to expound its meaning."

Again there was a brief glow in the clouded eyes, then she gave a rippling laugh.

"I am no priest to expound, Mr. Claverdon; nor yet a sybil to divine secrets. You have come to the wrong door, I am afraid."

She stretched a hand, pink like a shell, small, and beautiful as a perfect hand may be.

"I may see the trinket? You will trust me with this precious thing?"

There was a hint of mockery in her last words, a challenge in her eyes that told Claverdon that she knew quite well the meaning of the token; and with a laugh he thrust it towards her.

"Of course."

Narani took it, appeared to be absorbed in it for a moment, then looked up, and said carelessly:— "A pretty thing, and delicately carved. A gateway or an entrance to some temple, I fancy."

"Yes,"' answered Claverdon, apparently as carelessly. "For a guess, The Gate of Ringing Sands."

At the words so carelessly spoken a startled light came in Narani's eyes, a look of something like consternation came on her face. She leaned forward on the divan, and there was an almost harsh note in the bell-like voice as she asked quickly,

"The Gate of Ringing Sands? What is that?"

Chapter 3

AS NARANI asked her question Claverdon laughed. "That is what I came to ask you, Narani."

The woman's dark eyes expressed surprise, and there was a note of it in her voice as she replied, "Indeed, Mr. Claverdon! But why should you come to me?"

"Because I think you know the secret of that Gate," was the answer, quietly given.

"If I denied all knowledge―"

Claverdon laughed. "I would not do that if I were you. It would be a waste of time."

Narani did not reply for a moment. A calculating look came on the beautiful face, and her eyes had again the clouded look. Then she gave a little laugh that had in it a ring of mockery.

"You seem very sure, Mr. Claverdon. But I beseech you to reflect that you may be mistaken."

"No," answered Claverdon stubbornly. Then he continued sharply. "That man who left you just now―" He checked, as he caught the look which Came in the woman's eyes at the mention of her departed visitor, and quite deliberately waited.

"Yes, that man?" demanded Narani quickly, her voice tense and as it seemed to him apprehensive. "What of him, Mr. Claverdon?"

"He wore a gaud in his turban like that one in your hand. I saw it as he went out."

Relief — "Claverdon was sure it was relief — glowed momentarily in Narani's eyes. She leaned back among the cushions, and her laughter rippled mockingly.

"Really, my friend, I am not responsible for the jewels my visitors wear in their turbans."

"No!" The stubborn note was in Claverdon's voice again. "But the man wore the symbol of The Gate. He was here— your friend―"

"Are you so sure of that?" she interrupted.

"I judge by appearances," was the retort. "The man was wearing that symbol, he was here—"

"But you did not know that when you came?" asked Narani quickly.

"No. But his presence with that jewel in his turban, confirmed the suspicion that brought me here to make inquiries— the suspicion that you also, indeed, know more about The Gate than you have owned."

"Ah, there is something else — something anterior to―"

"Yes!" broke in Claverdon crisply. "You mentioned Ringing Sands to a man―"

"To Chutter Ghose," broke in the woman, with a little laugh. "I had heard the name and was curious about it. Chutter hears all the gossip of the Chandni Chowk." She laughed again. "But curiosity is not a crime— in my sex."

"Nor in mine," retorted Claverdon quickly. "Perhaps you will tell me where you heard the name? I am— pardon me— very curious."

Narani did not reply immediately. A look of reflection came on her face, her eyes closed, her smooth brows creased in an apparent effort of remembrance, and Claverdon watched her with some amusement. Finally the marvellous eyes opened and looked straight at him whilst her head was shaken.

"I cannot recall where or from whom I heard the name," she answered in a tone that expressed regret.  "I have ; many callers... and you know how light gossip floats to and fro like thistledown in a breeze. It was an odd name, it hinted of mystery, and I was interested... curious!"

She looked at the trinket in her hand.

"And you think this is the Gate of Ringing Sands, Mr. Claverdon? Yes? Then I am the more intrigued. I should like to hear anything that you can tell me. But it has perhaps to do with the Sirkar, and you cannot indulge me?"

Her laughter rang like silver bells as she asked the question; then she added: "But now that I know the secret of the symbol, I shall ask the man who wore it―"

"Who was that man?" asked Claverdon brusquely.

The dark eyes grew bright with mocking mirth as she laughed again.

"You are, indeed, very curious, Mr. Claverdon, more curious than a woman. But there is no reason why I should not tell you. In Delhi, the man with the jade ornament in his turban Is known as Fazir Beg—"

"Aye!" broke in Nima Tashi, chuckling loudly. "In Delhi, maybe. "But beyond the passes he is Rahman Ali."

At the Tibetan's words Louis Claverdon almost jumped with astonishment, but a moment later he had himself in hand, his lean face revealed nothing of his surprise; and he was quick to note the look of chagrin which came and passed in Narani's eyes. Then her laughter rang through the chamber.

"A mistake, man of the hills," she cried in a mirthful voice. "You should consult Chutter Ghose about a pair of glasses."

"No need, Narani," interrupted Nima, with rumbling laughter. "I have seen that eagle cock too often to make mistake, though what he does In Delhi, unless he seeks a mate in thee".

Claverdon's mind worked quickly. He had no doubt that the Tibetan was right. The chagrin in Narani's eyes was proof of that; her evident desire to shake the Tibetan's conviction was added testimony. And that Rahman Ali should be there, wearing that symbol,  gave a quite tremendous force to Colonel Cavenagh's blind shot. That guess in the dark was vindicated, and it was of the first importance that Cavenagh should know the facts before Rahman All could leave Delhi, or be warned that his presence was known to the authorities.

He decided that it was time to go; and began to cast about for an excuse to leave.

"Then you know nothing of The Gate of Ringing Sands?" he asked, deliberately ignoring the Tibetan's intervention.

"I know just what you have told me, Mr. Claverdon," she answered, with an apparent frankness that did not deceive him.

"Then I am sorry to have troubled you," he answered. "I had hoped to learn from you."

"And instead the boot, as your compatriots say, is on the other leg," Narani laughed cheerfully as she made the counter. "But it is better to give than to receive— which I suppose is as true of knowledge as of bread. But you are not going, Mr. Claverdon?"  A little flash of anxiety came into her eyes as she asked the question, and be thought she glanced towards the curtained doorway.  "I can promise you music, a nautch such us you shall not find elsewhere in all  Delhi."

"Thank you. It is good of you to offer. But I must go, Madame. The Sirkar's business calls me."

Narani mocked. "Pooh! The Sirkar! Will it not wait our pleasure?"  Then she laughed enigmatically; and a flash shot in her clouded eyes, as she added:

"You will not find him, though you go through Delhi with a dust-comb."

That she had divined what was in his mind, Louis Claverdon easily guessed. Her words left him in no doubt of that, and the knowledge made it all the more imperative that he should take his leave.

He held out his band for the jade trinket, and she tossed it to him carelessly, with a laugh that hid her reluctance to let it go from her. Then she clapped her bands and one of her girls came running. Narani whispered something to the girl. Claverdon would have given his head almost to bear the words, but strained his ears in vain. Then as the attendant disappeared, running as she had arrived, he spoke again.

"I must go, Madame―"

"But you will take refreshment first, Mr. Claverdon. The night is hot; and the sherbet is well cooled. That girl will bring it within a minute. I gave her the order—"

"That was very thoughtful of you," answered Claverdon. "But I am afraid  we cannot wait―"

"But see, she comes already. You cannot refuse."

In her manifest anxiety there was something that escaped Claverdon's understanding. He strove to conjecture what it was, and failed; and whilst he stood the girl approached him with a silver salver, on .which were three crystal goblets. Plainly Narani meant to join him and Nima, and, since the choice of goblets was his, there could be little risk in accepting the refreshment offered.

He took one of the goblets; the Tibetan took the second, and Narani accepted the third.

"Your, very good health, Mr. Claverdon," she said with a smile, and lifted her glass.

"And thine, Narani," laughed Nima-Tashi before the Englishman could speak. They drank together; then Narani stood up. She was tall— as tall almost as Claverdon himself; Her dark blue eyes met his in level glance. They were full of witchery and allurement and feminine challenge, and there was a hypnotic quality in their fixedness.

Claverdon— wise in the ways, of the ancient East— recognised the fact instantly, and deliberately turned his eyes away, looking round to find Nima staring at the woman in a way that told him that the hill-man felt her spell as he did himself.

"Come, Nima," he said, "we must march." He turned anew to Narani.

If she were disappointed that he should so assert himself she hid it very well, for she was smiling; and now she made no further attempt to delay his departure.

"If you must," she said, and held out her hand. Claverdon took it, marvelling at its smallness, held it for a second, then stooped over it and touched it with his lips; not lightly, but rather as one who would honour its possessor.

As he straightened himself their eyes met again, and in hers he saw a light of wonder, which passed whilst still he held her hand.

"Good night, Mr. Claverdon," she said. "You have stirred my curiosity amazingly with your trinket. If you should obtain news of that mysterious Gate, perhaps you will honour me again."

A little mocking smile played about her lips at the last words; then as her hand slipped from Claverdon's she looked at Nima-Tashi and laughed.

"Good-bye, man of the Hills. Maybe the time is not long before the breech-bolts will be sent— then look out for thy yaks."

The Tibetan grinned. "My yaks have horns; woman— and my rifle has a bolt. Also it is without safety-catch."

Narani laughed again and clapped her hands. The houri-like girl who had admitted them appeared and they began to follow her across the room. When they reached the curtains, Claverdon looked back over his shoulder, and saw the woman standing full in the soft lamplight, a statuesque figure, considering him as it seemed with enigmatic eyes. Then as the curtain fell behind him, he saw the Tibetan loosen his heavy Afghan knife in its sheath, and at the same time, at the other, end of the corridor, observed the serving-man with the scarlet sash advancing.

"Steady, Nima!" he whispered, guessing what was in the hill-man's mind.

"Aye! But if the way out is barred, my friend? That woman would have kept us longer, if―"

He broke off as the attendant drew nearer, and though his hand left the knife, it rested on the belt very close to the wooden haft; and it was clear that he was taking no chances. As they left the corridor and stepped on the landing, Claverdon's eyes went swiftly to the guard upon the stairs. The man stood there, nonchalantly, nothing in his demeanour to awake suspicion of any evil intention.

Claverdon drew a long breath. He himself was sure that Narani had purposely delayed their going, and, had she been able, would have delayed them longer. That there was a very definite reason for that he was sure, but the reason was not here upon the stairs. Lower down, perhaps in the entrance hall it might appear, and as they passed the last turn of the stairs he braced himself for any treacherous move. The precaution, however, was quite unnecessary, and two minutes later they found themselves in the dark street  with the hum of the city in their ears.

The Tibetan filled his lungs with air and spoke in a laughing whisper:

"The skin lifts on the back when there is a naked knife behind. Those bars upon the stairs―"

"But the danger was not there," broke in Claverdon, glancing up and down the street.

"True," owned the hill-man. "Yet the peril is somewhere, or my skin lies."

Claverdon did not stop to argue. With another glance up the dark narrow street he gave the command.

"Walk at my heels, Nima, and keep your ears open."

"At thy heels, aye, for a woman and intrigue are one; and I liked not the manners of that eagle-cock from the Hills."

Claverdon had not liked them either, but he offered no comment. As he started to walk forward there was one urgent thought in his mind, which was that it was very essential that Cavenagh should know of Rahman's presence in Delhi at the earliest moment. Of the connection between Narani and the young Khan he could not guess. Still less could he divine the relation of both to The Gate of The Ringing Sands; but that should wear the symbol in his  turban, in view of Colonel Cavenagh's words, was significant.

The abduction of Helen Wargrave and the symbol must have the appearance of isolated things; but Rahman Ali was, as it appeared, the nexus between them.

Absorbed in his thoughts, he moved on through the narrow streets of the native quarter, regardless now whether he were shadowed or not, watchful of front and flank, and depending on Nima-Tashi to guard his rear. That there was need for precaution he scarcely believed, but the Tibetan was right in his saying that a woman and intrigue were one; and Rahman Ali's bad manners did not make for confidence where he was concerned,

They turned into a narrow street where the houses were high and dingy. The air was heavy with stagnant odours, and every house, as Claverdon guessed, was full of whispering iniquity. At the corner of the street five men passed them in a bunch, mere shadows in the dusk, who did not so much as glance their way. Half-way down the street there came the first indication of trouble.

"My friend," said Nima in a stage whisper, "there is a wolf at our heels. Shall I slay him?"

"For God's sake, no!" replied Claverdon sharply. "There, is no need for folly."

They continued on their way, but a dozen yards farther on the Tibetan spoke again: "The wolf is nearer. Almost he bites my heels; I shall be ham-stringed. He has a knife. I caught the gleam of it but now."

"Then we go quicker— that is all."

"Ho! Ho!" grumbled Nima. "We run from a fray. Never did I think to― By the gods!"

The exclamation betokened a sudden surge of excitement, and as Claverdon turned swiftly he saw the Tibetan's knife flash as he swung to receive a man rushing towards him. He had no more than time for that glimpse, not even time to cry out to his companion, when a man landed on his back, with hands at his throat. Other hands fell on him; he felt himself being thrust backward, glimpsed a balcony overhead, and heard a door open behind him!

Then, acting swiftly, he wrenched an arm free, caught one of the fingers gripping his throat, and deliberately bent it backward. There was a little snap, an oath of pain, and his throat was free. Whilst he gulped the air he touched a wall, and whirled round to get his back against it; a second later he lifted a knee sharply. It found a soft body and drew a groan. The clinging arms about him fell away, and without pause, guessing several presences in the Stygian gloom, he struck out with naked, fists, and his knuckles found a jaw-bone.

The impact made a sound like the click of billiard balls smartly driven, and he heard some one crash in the passage with the grunt of a felled ox. Then there was a rush. He struck blindly as before, hit someone, but was overwhelmed by a surge of half-nude bodies. He was swept off his feet to the floor, where he rolled and writhed in an effort to free himself. He kicked with his booted feet till a man fell on his legs. Another man's body was across his face, half-smothering him; and, whilst he momentarily expected a knife thrust, and. wondered that it was not given, be was suddenly conscious of a lithe hand searching his clothing.

In that second he knew the reason for this attack so silently conducted. Someone wanted the jade trinket which he had shown to Narani. The man lying across his face moved a little, and he tried to cry out.

"Ni―" He got no further, but heard a roaring answer; and in the second the dark place was full of sound as if a bull had been let loose in it. A voice shouted an order; there was a bellow from the Tibetan, the death-scream of a man as a knife found him; then a sound of running feet.

There was another sharp order, and the man lying on Claverdon's face lifted himself to his feet. Claverdon promptly felt for and found an ankle, and as the man began to run jerked him from his feet. He felt a thud, and, as he did so, the Tibetan's voice boomed out:—

"My friend—"

"Here!" answered Claverdon, and staggered to his feet felt for the matches in his pocket. "

Striking one, he looked swiftly round. Nima-Tashi, the reddened knife in his hand, was standing against the wall. At his feet, huddled in death, was the form of a native, and a yard or so. away was a second native, just picking himself up, a dazed expression on his face— the man whose flight had been prevented, as he guessed.

Promptly Claverdon dropped the match, gripped the man and swung him to his feet. The fellow squirmed in his grip, but speaking in the native tongue, Claverdon fairly hissed in his ear. There was no answer, and thrusting out a hand in the darkness, he whispered to Nima-Tashi:

"Take the matches; strike a light."

The Tibetan's big hand met his, there was a little scraping sound and, as the light flickered, Claverdon looked into his captive's face.

"Now speak!"

The fellow remained mute, and very conscious of a growing sound of tumult in the street. Claverdon gave an order.

"Thy knife, Nima. Against the ribs. Quick!"

The Tibetan broke into chuckling" laughter, set the reddened knife against the man's side, and as the match scorched his fingers dropped it. "Now who set you to kill me?"

"Aye, who?" grunted Nima. Claverdon felt the man start and squirm, as he guessed, at the prick of the Tibetan's knife.

"It was not... to kill," came the answer stammeringly.

"Then it was to rob! Whose was the order?"

"It was Fazir Beg."

"Who beyond the passes—"

"S-s-s-sh! Nima!" broke in Claverdon peremptorily, then asked another question of which there was really little need.

Chapter 4

AS CLAVERDON stared up at the woman he was acutely conscious of the growing tumult outside. There were wild cries, voices shouting muddled information, and even whilst he stood wandering what to do a sharp, authoritative rapping sounded on the door. That way of egress was barred beyond all question, and what other way there might be he could only guess, and had little time for finding out. He called out reassuringly to the woman, who, instead of replying, turned and fled, leaving them in utter darkness, and as she did so the rapping on the door commenced anew.

There was need for instant action, and he took it.

With a sudden swing of his arm he drove the man whom he had questioned to the floor; then he whispered to the Tibetan— 'This way, Nima. Give me your hand.'

Together they moved forward, towards a curtain which Claverdon had marked at the far end of the passage. They reached it just as there came a sound of movement in the direction of the door, which told Claverdon that the man whom he had knocked down was already moving to open to those outside.

'Quick, Nima,' he whispered, and slipped between the curtains. Against a glow of light that came from some other house he descried an open window and a balcony rail, and moved straight towards it. The house was higher behind than in front, and there was a drop into darkness which he took unhesitatingly, landing on his feet in a small garden. The Tibetan followed, and as they sought a way out they learned that the place was surrounded by blind walls at least seven feet high.

Shouts came from the house, proclaiming that their pursuers had entered, and with but brief time to spare they made for an angle of the wall. 'Your back. Nima,' said Claverdon quickly, and within half a minute he was astride the wall, helping his companion to clamber up.

A shout came from the balcony just as they dropped from the wall to the farther side, and guessing their way of escape was known, Claverdon spoke again, crisply—

'Now we run, my friend. Keep at my heels.'

'Aye,' chuckled the Tibetan.

As they started to run a yell came from the house, and was echoed from the street. No doubt, thought Claverdon, the word for the pursuit had gone forth, and as they hastened down the narrow noisome ways of the native quarter he found corroboration of that in the clamour behind them.

Down one suffocating passage after another they fled, then, as they reached a narrow thoroughfare that led straight into the Chandni Chowk, they slackened speed, falling into a quick walk. Claverdon wiped the sweat from his eyes and looked at his blown companion.

'A narrow shave,' he said with a sharp hush.

'Aye, the razor almost had the head. But why should we have run who had suffered attack?'

'Why was the attack made?' countered the Englishman.

'They sought that green stone I brought from Waldron Sahib, if that liar was to be believed.'

'Aye!  And behind those who sought was Fazir Beg, who behind the passes is Rahman Ali.'

'And the friend of Narani, who kept us to swallow sherbet whilst she sent the man word. Hast thought of that?'

Claverdon had thought of it, and said so; and as they made the Chandni Chowk and found a gharri to take them to Colonel Cavenagh's bungalow, he thought of little else until he was in Cavenagh's presence, when he momentarily put it from him whilst he delivered his surprising news.

'Rahman Ali is in Delhi, or was an hour ago!'

'Then there's devilry forward,' commented Cavenagh, and going to the telephone proceeded to make swift arrangements for the seizing of that brewer of mischief, if it were possible. That done, he returned to Claverdon.

'How do you know, Louis?'

'Nima-Tashi recognised him at a house where we called together, and where he masqueraded as Fazir Beg.'

He delivered an unvarnished tale of his adventures since leaving the Colonel's office; and his chief listened closely, making no comment until the end was reached. Then he said:

'Waldron was right about Ringing Sands; and I was right in my guess about Rahman Ali, I think. We shan't get him in Delhi, I'm afraid, if things are as you Bay; but we may scoop him father north.'

'And this woman, Narani?' asked Claverdon, watching the other's face closely. 'You know her?'

'Yes!' Cavenagh's tone was enigmatic. 'I have a report that she is a Bolshevik agent; but I have reason to doubt it.'

'Chutter Ghose says that she is Russian. She knows of Ringing Sands, sir, and the conjunction between her and Rahman Ali is significant. Also the fact that the latter knew the jade ornament was in my possession needs explanation. Narani must have sent him word―'

'Or he listened at the doorway,' interjected Cavenagh.

'A possibility!' agreed Claverdon. 'But the woman―' Cavenagh laughed a little dryly. 'You can leave her to me, Claverdon.'

'Certainly, sir,' answered Claverdon, knowing that a door to questions was shut in his face.

Then the other spoke again. 'Ringing Sands, whatever it is and whatever is brewing there, is a place of omen. The sooner we can get on the track of it, the better. I think if you start for the Hills immediately―'

'But may not the secret be learned here in―'

The whirr of the telephone bell broke on his words, and his host moved to answer it. Claverdon could not help hearing the colonel's 'Yes! Yes! Is that so?' and as he watched the other's face he was intrigued by its changing expression. Three or four minutes passed, then Cavenagh hung up the receiver and turned to him.

'You were about to say that the secret of Ringing Sands might be found here in Delhi?'

'Yes. that woman Narani ? '

'She left Delhi ten minutes ago.'

'Ah!'

'With considerable baggage. I had a message just now. Her ticket was for Lahore— but I suspect her destination is a goodish bit east of that. So if you think of wresting the facts from her you'll have to travel some.'

'There's the telegraph,' commented Claverdon. 'She can be stopped.'

'That is obvious.' Cavanagh's dry laugh accompanied the words. 'But I would not have her stopped for worlds. You get me?' He smiled again, as if he had conveyed information to the younger

man, then he added. 'The sooner you are under way, the better, I think, Claverdon. I can look after that lady and this end of things, but it's in the Hills the facts will be learned. I am convinced of that.'

He left his hair and went to a desk, from which he returned with a rolled map. 'You have copies of the reports which have reached me concerning The Gate. They're meagre, but helpful. '

He unfolded the map. 'You will have seen the reports come from Bokhara, Kholan and Tashkent.' He indicated the places on the map. 'They make a pretty big triangle, with the base cutting across the Pamirs from Hiesar to Khatan and its apex in Tashkent, and somewhere in that area the secret lies. I am certain... You've got to grub it out, Claverdon, for failure means big trouble. It isn't a case of the Border only, but of all the confounded lot behind. The Reds have been active in Afghanistan and everywhere else, and, as I told you, Waldron is convinced that somewhere up in the Pamirs there is some tremendous devilry brewing; and we've got to know what it is. You know that country and you ride With a loose rein; you understand?'

'Yes... I may take Nima-Tashi with me?'

'If you think it wise.'

'He knows every track op there, and we are old friends.'

'Very we'll. You will go on the next train north?'

'Without fail.'

'That's all, I think,' said Colonel Cavenagh, after a moment's consideration. 'Everything is at your discretion; but if you can establish touch with Waldron, so much the better.'

'I'll try, of course, sir.'

'Good! Then as you'll be on your way before morning, you'll need to get busy. Report when you can. That Tibetan bandit may be helpful there.'

He stood up, his hand outstretched, and his official manner dropped from him like a garment.

'Good hunting, Louis.'

'Thank you; sir. Good-bye.'

THREE HOURS later, having from a distance watched Nima-Tashi pack himself into an already full compartment of protesting natives, Claverdon climbed into a sleeping compartment that had been reserved for him, and, when the train moved on, composed himself for sleep, his eyes shut to exclude the faint light of the lamp overhead. But though he nursed it assiduously, sleep was long in coming. Try as he would, he could not exclude from him mind the remembrance of the past few hours, and again and again, when he was on the point of drifting into sleep, he visioned the faces of Rahman Ali and the woman Narani, starting a fresh train of thought and a string of questions to which there was no answer.

What was Rahman Ali doing in Delhi? In what relation did the woman stand to him? Had she, indeed, deliberately delayed the departure of Nima and. himself in order to give time for the shadowers to be set; and what was her interest in The Gate of Ringing Sands? He recalled his superior's enigmatic attitude towards Narani, Cavenagh had told him positively nothing, though obviously he knew something, could, indeed, scarcely be ignorant of her activities if they were directed against the British Raj.

From questions he passed to visions of the woman herself, recalling her beauty, the glory of her hair, the hypnotic glow of her wonderful eyes, and it was with the remembered spell of these upon him that finally he drifted into sleep.

It was at least a couple of hours later when he awoke, his flesh prickling with the heat. The night was intolerably hot, the air of the compartment like the hot blast from an open furnace— almost unbreathable. He did not move, for movement meant greater heat; but his eyes half-opened, considered the dim light of . the lamp for a moment, then closed again, and he lay perfectly still, limbs relaxed, wooing anew elusive slumber. He had almost achieved it when a sound, quite alien to the eternal rumble of the train, startled him to complete wakefulness— the click of the door-catch.

He did not move, his eyes opened little more than the fraction of an inch; and breathing regularly as a child, he waited for what, was to follow. At least two or three tense minutes passed, then the door opened, and some one slid noiselessly as a snake into the compartment and stood looking down at him.

Knowing the way of Indian rail-thieves and divining possibilities beyond mere theft that might account for the intrusion, trying as the situation was, Claverdon gave no sign of being aware of the intruder's presence, though he had a cat's sense of eyes watching him. After a brief period the intruder moved towards the hook where Claverdon's clothing hung. Claverdon sensed rather than heard the movement, and opened his eyes a very little to watch the thief under his lashes.

He saw a tall native, well-dressed, with a large silken turban on his head, busy rifling his pockets. His first glimpse told him that this was no ordinary train-thief, for whilst there were various things worth a thief's taking, they were glanced at and returned to. the pockets from which they had been taken— even the purse with the money in it. Claverdon's interest grew, and his  eyes opened a very little farther as the intruder, having gone through his clothes, turned towards a small attaché case lying on the floor. That case, as its 'owner' knew was unlocked and would present no difficulty to the searcher, who, as a matter of fact, lifted it and tested the catches, opening them so cautiously that no sound reached the watcher. Swiftly the contents of the case were examined, and the case closed and returned to Its former position on the floor.

Then, as the intruder stood upright and looked round, Claverdon's eyes were swiftly veiled, but not entirely closed. The intruder moved a little, bringing himself fully into the subdued light of the lamp, and Claverdon for the first time had sight of his face. It was a dark-skinned face, fine featured like many faces of northern races, and undeniably handsome, as many dark faces are. A small moustache adorned the upper lip, the mouth below was delicate and fine, the chin firm and strong. The man stood ruminating apparently, a little uncertain how to proceed, his eyes half-closed, and directed in the direction of the berth.

Claverdon, conscious of that ruminating gaze, remained perfectly still, guessing what the man would do next and preparing for the eventuality. He had long ago divined the object of the man's searching of his possessions, and, knowing how safely that object was bestowed, was beginning to find the situation amusing. At last, his mind apparently made up, the intruder moved, and with a little thrill Claverdon caught the gleam of a knife in his hand. A moment later the thrill was swamped by sheer amazement for as the intruder, glided towards the berth, his eyelids lifted, and as the eyes were fixed upon him and were fully revealed, Claverdon had the shock of his life.

Hair may be dyed— golden strands turned to raven hues; a face may be disguised in a dozen ways; but eyes that are in any way individual are always revealing; and as Claverdon saw the dark clouded eyes kindling with excitement, recognition of the intruder came, and he almost cried out with astonishment: 'Narani!'

As his mind registered the fact, after its first shattering amazement, he was conscious of a wild inclination to laugh; but forcing his risibility back, he lay immobile, breathing gently, waiting for the denouement of this astonishing visit. By the side of his berth the disguised woman came to a standstill, leaving him in doubt of her purpose. To sleep with one's valuables under one's head is almost traditional, though it was not Claverdon's practice; for though heads lie heavy, thieving hands are light, and there are less accessible hiding-places than the underside of a pillow. The woman stooped a little, and a little waft of perfumed breath came to his nostrils; then, lithely as a snake and lightly as falling thistle down, a hand slid under the pillow.

No slumbering man could have been awakened by that light movement. Tense and alert as he was, Claverdon guessed rather than felt it, and knew that his moment had arrived. He turned swiftly, and as he did so his own hand shot out and caught the fine wrist above the little hand that held the knife, then with a laugh he flung himself half-upright.

The disguised woman made one frantic movement, almost twisting herself free; then, realising the impossibility of escape, she stood still, her slumbrous eyes glowing, her breasts under the silken tunic rising and falling quickly, her breath la? a little agitated; but, beyond that, with no outward sign of apprehension. Claverdon swing his pyjamaed legs clear of the sheet, and, standing upright, looked at her with eyes smilingly triumphant. Then he laughed again.

'You make a pretty man, Narani!'

The woman did not reply. Caught in flagrante delicto, she did not seem vastly perturbed, and as Claverdon felt the beating pulse in the wrist and met the glance of the dark eyes at less than a yard's range, his hilarity and sense of triumph died down of the suddenest. Those glowing eyes brought to him a vision of her as he had seen her in her own house a few hours before, and momentarily he forgot the disfiguring colour, the disguise of dress, and moustached lip, and saw her as she was in reality, a white, golden woman of startling beauty. Her nearness, the touch of her flesh, set him on fire, and as he looked into her wonderful eyes he was conscious of a stir of fierce emotion which shook him in spite of himself, so that for a moment his purpose wavered...

Then fighting for control, deliberately he looked away, dropping his eyes to the hand that held the knife. It was a small hand, and the knife was proportionate to it― but a deadly thing enough; and as he considered it. his heart hardened towards her.

'A fine love-token!' he said harshly. Narani did not reply, but stood there dumb, watching him with her fathomless eyes.

Claverdon, in the face of her silence, was momentarily at a loss how to proceed; then, stirred by curiosity, he asked, 'Would you have used it?'

Her face lost its immobility. An odd questioning look came in. her eyes as if she were interrogating herself, then she answered a little quiveringly, 'I do not know... No! I do not think I should―'

Then Claverdon did a thing that surprised himself. Impulsively he released the little hand that held the knife, well knowing that in nine cases out of ten such an action would have been the merest folly, but assured that this was the tenth case. As he did so Narani looked at him wonderingly. The door was behind her, and it was just possible that a quick break-away might have been ensured her escape, yet she made no attempt. Instead, she stood there, breathing quickly, her whole demeanour betraying emotion.

At last she spoke, her bell-like voice shaking a little as with agitation.

'You are very trustful, Mr. Claverdon.'

A second later, before he could reply she tossed the knife into the farthest corner of the compartment, and Claverdon laughed lightly.

'At least, you vindicate my trustfulness.'

Again, except for the ceaseless rumble of the train, there was silence, after which a little time was broken by the woman's enquiry, 'You are wondering why I came here?'

'No,' he answered smilingly. 'I know. It was to secure that piece of carved jade which once before to-night you tried to obtain by having me attacked in Delhi streets.'

A look of wonder flashed in her eyes, a look which, as he was sure, was not simulated. Then she answered swiftly, 'But you are mistaken. I did not have you attacked―'

'Perhaps not directly. That man whom I saw at your house, Rahman Ali — alias Fazir Beg— was the actual director of the attack; but he must have had information from someone that the jade was in my possession. Only two others knew— and you, I may remind you, kept me waiting on the excuse of drinking sherbet.'

'There was a very good reason for that,' interrupted Narani.

'I should like to hear it,' he countered.

'There is no reason in the world why you should not. Mr. Claverdon. It is very simple. That man whom you saw, and who behaved so insultingly, was behind the curtain of the doorway―'

'Ah!' interrupted Claverdon, as the explanation of Rahman Ali's knowledge was given to him. Then he said accusingly, 'You knew, of course.'

'No, not until the very last moment, when I saw him peering through the curtain. It was then I sent for the sherbet, and at the same time I sent him a peremptory message to go, thinking there might be some trouble if you met. It was for your sake as well as for his—'

'He must have heard our conversation— have learned that I had the jade symbol.'

'Apparently, or you would not have been attacked.'

Claverdon considered a moment, and when he spoke again the hard note was back in his voice.

'That explains what happened after we left your house but it does not make clear why you should be here, knife in hand, to steal like any common railway thief.'

Narani laughed suddenly. 'I did not take your money―'

'No, I saw that. But you came to steal, all the same. Why? Are you Rahman Ali's agent?'

'In this, no,'

'Then why are you here? To steal a trinket on which you have set your heart? I cannot believe that!'

'If I tell you— you will not believe me,' answered the woman quietly.

'I shall at least have the opportunity of judging whether it is worth while to try,' answered Claverdon shortly.

'It is because I am your friend, and I would save your life,' replied Narani with a seriousness that almost convinced him. Then he remembered things.

'And the knife you carried?' he asked hardly. 'Was that to save my life?'

She shrank a little at the jibe, then spoke protestingly, 'You are assuming too much. It—'

Through the rumble of the train a pistol shot sounded. Louis Claverdon felt the wind of the bullet in his hair, and as the lamp crashed, leaving the compartment in darkness, amid the sound of falling glass. Claverdon, as he crouched low, heard the woman cry out, 'Oh! You are not hurt? You―'

He laughed in answer, and stretched a hand to seize her. She slipped away, and as he crouched he heard the door of the compartment open. She was fleeing, as he guessed, but he made no move to follow.

He knew that not to act as an enemy would anticipate was a safe rule, and the man who had fired the shot was probably waiting for him to reveal himself that he might fire again. Knowing himself invisible in the blackness, he remained quite still, and as he crouched by the berth, thought he heard a whispered protest; then the door crashed, and he knew that he was alone in the compartment.

Chapter 5

THREE MINUTES LATER the engine whistle screeched, the brakes went on, and the speed of the train slackened, preparatory to stopping.

'A station!' muttered Claverdon, and groped his way to the door. He did not open it, however, until the lights of a wayside station flashed into view: but when the train came to a standstill he stepped on to the platform and signalled to a solitary Eurasian official, who showed no violent hurry to respond. Meanwhile, he watched the line of the train. The station was full of shadows. but he was morally certain that no one left the train; and indeed scarcely a head showed at the doors. The Eurasian was sleepy, and listened to his incomplete statement with some scepticism, until he was shown the shattered lamp and the mark of the bullet in the woodwork. Even then with belief forced upon him he was hostile to Claverdon's suggestion that the train should be searched.

'Oah, but it is no use to search thee te-rain. Those te-rain thieves are ver-ee clever. You will find onlee thee empty seats which they will have vacated. When thee te-rain slowed down they drop off, sar, also thee te-rain is late and heat is ver-ee great—'

Claverdon cut In with authority, insisting, and together they walked the length of the train, the native ostentatiously indifferent, the Englishman carefully inspecting such passengers as were visible, looking not for the man who had fired the pistol, but for Narani.

He drew a blank. Nowhere did he see anyone remotely resembling either herself or the character she had assumed; and at length he was driven to the decision that she had indeed left the train, and gave up the search.

'Did I not sa-ee. sar, that you would not find thee thief. It is not?'

Claverdon broke in on him curtly, ordering him to find a fresh sleeping compartment with a whole lamp; and when the train once more rolled on Its way, with the door barricaded, he sought his new berth, and gave himself up to reflection, question after question beating through his brain, driving sleep away.

Who had fired that bullet which had missed him so narrowly? He remembered the whispered protest which he had heard. That told him that the would-be assassin was known to Narani. Who was he? He could only guess that it was Rahman Ali or some tool of his. But what had Narani to do with the business? Why had she sought to steal the jade trinket? Was she acting for Rahman Ali? She had said that she had done what she had in order to save his life— but was she sincere in that, or was it just an easy lie meant to hide from him the real facts? He recalled her apparent anxiety after the firing of the shot. 'Oh, you are not hurt?' There had been genuine concern in that cry, and he could not doubt that the feeling was sincere enough. And yet— that knife she had carried? That stuck in his gullet. It was a cold fact beyond any easy explanation, and it pointed to a desperate determination to accomplish the purpose behind her nocturnal intrusion.

He was frankly puzzled. There was so much that was contradictory in the situation. That she had not known of the attack made on him in the street, he was convinced. Her surprise on hearing of it had been genuine; her explanation of Rahman Ali's knowledge of his possession of the jade symbol was so simple that there was no need to question it... and yet she had ventured into his compartment, knife in hand, with the intention of purloining that symbol; and whoever had fired the shot which had shattered the lamp had surely known of her intention.

The explanation of it all was beyond him, but before he slept he decided quite definitely that Narani was to be counted among those who were hostile to the purpose which was taking him northward to the Hills, and to the desolate places where the secret of Ringing Sands was to be learned.

WHEN he arrived at Rawal Pindi, he was the first to step out of the train, and standing by the entrance he watched every single passenger decanted there leave the station. Among them was Nima-Tashi, who acknowledged him, only by the slightest flick of an eyelid; but of the woman whom he sought he saw nothing, nor was there anyone who betrayed the slightest interest in himself.

He waited until the train moved on, then after a farther look round, instructed a porter to carry his single case to a car which awaited him, and having breakfasted, after a couple of hours started on the two hundred miles' drive to Srinagar, on the way passing Nima-Tashi, who between bribery and laughing assurance had secured transport on a Government auto-truck.

Srinagar, the Venice of Asia, is a popular resort in the hot weather, and though the season was late, Louis Claverdon might have found many acquaintances there had he chosen. But when he arrived there he sought none, nor did he seek a lodging where any such might surprise him. In that City of the Sun he was deposited outside a store that bore a name known throughout Northern India; and his case having been carried in, he followed it; and apparently stayed there.

But when darkness had come down from the hills, a man whose only resemblance to Claverdon was his height, felt his way through the clutter of empty cases at the rear of the store, and found one that enabled him to scale the blind wall behind. There he waited for a full ten minutes, watching, listening, before he dropped noiselessly into the dark alley on the other side. There again he listened; and then stalked forward, making for a narrow street that led down to the bazaar.

Passing through, he came to a door which he thrust open, and entered a large courtyard, the air of which was heavy with the odour of horses and camels, and crossed the reeking space to a door that stood wide open. The light streaming through fell full upon him as he approached, showing a man of burly figure, with fringed and belted coat, baggy trousers that narrowed at the ankles, shoes much pointed, with toes turning upward, frowsy hair under a heavy turban and a ragged beard. At the Bokhariat belt there hung a pouch and a heavy knife, and he carried in one unclean hand a long-lashed whip with a short leather-covered stock, the round end heavily loaded— an exceedingly effective weapon in a fracas. The whole outfit, saving only the whip, had a much-worn, not to say decrepit, look; and he might very well have been a Balti horse-boy of the coper who had been knifed at Leh for speaking of the Gate of Ringing Sands. For something of the sort he was accepted by the motley crowd which made the serai their lodging-place, and who represented half the tribes of Asia and all the crawling tribes of its devouring body pests.

Truculent in bearing, and sullen of demeanour, he greeted none; but when he had eaten, sat smoking, listening to the babel of tongues about him. The babel was sufficiently pronounced— half the tongues of a continent and all the, dialects of the Border contending with each other, and making a great confusion of speech.

For a time he heard nothing that was of interest to him. The talk was of horses, of camels, of women, of bandits far up the passes and m the trade in distant cities; but presently he became aware of a voice piercing in quality and fervid of accent which cut through the medley of tongues like a sword. He found himself listening to it, and caught a word or two from the Koran.

'On that day their treasures shall be heated in hell fire―'

Staring about him under frowning brows, he presently picked out the owner of the dynamic voice— a lean man of ravaged countenance, head shaven clean as a billiard ball, eyebrows also sacrificed to the razor, with lashless eyelids, every hair having been plucked out. The man was squatting in a corner, swaying to and fro whilst he talked, and as he glimpsed him, Claverdon guessed him for a fanatic mullah; one of the race who ever breed trouble in the Hills. He watched the man and the little group about him curiously, and straining his ears caught another quotation from Mahomed's revelation.

'When ye encounter the infidel, strike off their heads till―'

A quarrel between a Pathan and a Herati groom broke in on the words. Knives were drawn and there was a promise of serious trouble, but others intervened, casting the Herati out to the filth of the courtyard; and when the row was over, the mullah had gone silent, and was seated on his haunches, staring straight in front of him, wild fires burning in his fierce eyes, his lips moving in soundless words. The men whom he had addressed were crowded, heads together, conversing in low voices, their obliviousness to all about them proving the depth of their interest.

Claverdon quickly moved a little nearer to him, and had the luck to catch a sentence or two.

'This Hidden Imam, of whom that shaven one speaks, where is he to be manifested?'

'Hast ears, fool? Said he not it was the place where, on the Sacred Friday, the sands make the sound of beaten nagaras?'

Claverdon almost jumped at the words. The sound of beaten drums: Instantly he linked the words to his own quest, and strained his ears to catch the answer.

'Aye!' A grunting sceptical laugh accompanied the word. 'But where does the sand sound like beaten drums? Whoever heard that miracle?'

The speaker was plainly incredulous, and for that Claverdon could have hugged him. as with burning ears he waited for the answer. But disappointment was his portion. The mullah, awakening from his fanatical absorption, thrust out a lean finger at the unbeliever.

'Infidel! May Allah smite thee with the curse of the deaf; and let thy flesh burn in hell.'

The mullah's eyes were fiercer even than his words. The man at whom they stared shrank back, from them as from withering flame, whilst the mullah chanted fanatically, 'Seest thou not those who cavil at the signs of God? How are they turned aside... when the collars shall be upon their necks, and the chains to drag them into hell; then in the fire shall they be burned!'

'Nay, Holy One,' protested the sceptic in a shaking voice. 'Set not thy curse upon me, l am no infidel; but a desirer of knowledge.'

'Rather one of those who cavil at the signs of God. How are they turned aside!'

As he thus answered, with a haughtiness that completely crushed the sceptic, the mullah rose to his feet, and stalked from the room.

Claverdon watched him go the while he kept his ears open, for further information. As the priest disappeared the man who had suffered his rebuke recovered a little and expressed himself with some asperity.

'A bald-headed old fool!'

'It is well not to speak evil of holy ones,' quoth one of his companions. 'They have ears beyond common men.'

'Maybe!' replied the other, 'but I am no suckling babe to swallow this mad tale of a Hidden Imam to be manifested at a place where the sands hail him with the sound of nagaras. As soon would I expect the snows upon our hills to sing. It is mad talk.'

There was no answer to this outburst, and Claverdon was left lamenting that he had not heard more. But as he sat there, smoking a hubble-bubble, his eyes half-closed, his. ears on the stretch, his mind was very active. He knew that by a piece of quite stupendous luck he had stumbled on that which might yet yield him the secret that he sought, and he knew also that behind the secret were really serious matters. That talk of the Hidden Imam, the Moslem restorer of all things, who is to establish the true faith in all the earth, was as old as the hills. But it was not a thing to be ignored, for always it meant trouble, sometimes trouble as calamitous as the Mahdi's invasion of Egypt.

If there was anything in what he had heard, this talk of the Hidden Imam meant that somewhere in the north a jehad was preparing, which might send the turbulent Hill men swarming down the passes, carrying rapine and death with them.

Seated there, a babel of dialects in his ears and the sour odour of unwashed humanity in his nostrils, he recalled Cavenagh's conviction of some hell's broth brewing in the hills, and knew that his chief was not mistaken. Talk of the jehad— the war of the faith— is perennial in fanatical Moslem circles, and, as he knew it, mostly the babble of water on stones, but, he told himself, when that talk begins to find a centre about either a man or a place, then it is time to keep an eye lifting. And here were both place and man— the Hidden Imam — a Mahdi to be manifested at a quite definite place, where miraculous sounds were heard on the Moslems' Holy Friday.

That place intrigued him vastly. What he had overheard about the sands which made the sound of beaten drums fitted in with very little dovetailing with the Gate of Ringing Sands, and he guessed that the sands were one and the same. Also the description gave him a clue— was, indeed, like a key unlocking the gates of memory, for quite suddenly into his mind shot a remembrance of words read long ago:—

'Sometimes you shall hear the sound of musical instruments, and still more commonly the sound of drums.'

Marco Polo had written that in mediaeval days, and he remembered that some later traveller had connected the reference with the Sounding Sandhill near the caves of the Thousand Buddhas in Tunyang. But that was in the Desert of Gobi, more than a thousand miles from any point of the triangle in which, as he was convinced, lay the secret of Ringing Sands— and it was not a Moslem country.

Marco Polo's words cleared up one mystery, but left the other untouched. They indicated the phenomena for which he was to look, but they did not point the locality where it was to be found, for the Gobi Desert was quite an impossible place. He had heard of none, but, he told himself, there must be some other place where the same phenomena of sounding sand occurred; and that they must lie somewhere in the triangle which had its points on Hissar, Khotan, and Tashkent. He sat for a long time, absorbed in the problem, then he rose, and, leaving the serai, by devious paths made his way to a house, where the sight of him caused a uniformed chuprassi to order him away with words of unspeakable rudeness. He did not go, but instead, speaking with a voice of authority that made the native jump, bade him curtly fetch his master.

Presently a young man, dressed for dinner, came forth and stared at him with nonchalant but very observant eyes.

'What do you want, fellow?' he asked at last. 'To send a tar,' replied Claverdon in Kashmiri.

The young man frowned. 'What the devil―'

'To Colonel Cavenagh at Delhi,' he whispered in English.

'Ah!'

'Be rude to me, very rude,' counselled Claverdon whisperingly. 'The night may be full of eyes.'

The other obeyed him with a vigour and faithfulness that left nothing to the imagination, calling him dog and other less pretty names, and bidding him if he wanted food to go to the stable boys, who were of his own kidney, adding in the intervals of abuse information that was desirable.

'Away to the right. There's a man on guard there, but I'll call him off for a while.'

Then his abuse became so violent that the caller slunk off hurriedly and faded away in the darkness.

Ten minutes later, however, he reappeared, a crouching shadow, at the rendezvous indicated; and whistling softly, caught a whisper, 'All clear.'

A door was opened and he slipped through; the door closed again, and then an electric torch was switched on, and the man, whose abuse had been so cordial, spoke.

'Here are forms— a pencil. But I'd like to know who you are you know.'

'Claverdon.'

'Well. I'm d—d! Louis, I'd never have known you in a month of Sundays, you're so confoundedly disreputable.'

Claverdon laughed without answering and began to write. When he had finished he handed the coded telegram to the other.

'Get it away, Charlesworth, at once. The answer is important.'

'You're going to wait?'

'Not on you life, old man, but at eleven in the morning I shall be bargaining for a sheepskin coat at the store of Mordecai the Jew, and if you happen along―'

'Oh! I shall happen.'

'Then I'll to my lodging in the serai, to get what sleep the fleas permit.'

The torch was switched off, and the door being opened he slid away in the shadows, and presently made the serai, as he nattered himself, without observation, There he made the acquaintance of one who was what he himself, seemed — a Balti coper's man.

The Balti was having trouble with an ill-tempered horse, and handling it badly; and; for the help he gave he was permitted to sleep in the stall with him on a bundle of fodder. And before the night was spent he found reason to question the correctness of the conviction that his goings had been unobserved. For, awakened by a stumble nearby, he caught a sound of whispering voices, and then of feet moving stealthily.

He acted swiftly, creeping silently behind two or three yak-dans, and. there, lying almost flat, awaited developments. He had not to wait long. Cautious steps sounded in the stall, there was the smell of a hidden lantern, which was presently uncovered, revealing two men, one of whom, after a quick glance round, threw himself, upon the snoring Balti— a hand on his mouth, a knife at his throat.

The man thus rudely awakened squirmed and tried to struggle, but at a prick of the knife became still as a corpse, and stared at the men with terrified eyes. The second man began to go through the Balti's clothes with a searching hand, and then gave a whispered curse.

'I cannot find it. Take thy hand from his mouth and make the pig speak.'

The hand was removed, the point of the knife pricked the Balti's sinewy throat in a ferocious hint; then there followed a question.

'Where is the jade trinket, son of Satan?'

The Balti stared at him with eyes in which, both amazement and fear were shining. 'In God's name, I know not what―'

Claverdon did not hear the rest. A plan had come to him, and he forthwith proceeded to execute it. He was between the men and the entrance to the stall, and crawling on his stomach among the ordure, he reached the pen, loosed the loaded whip from his belt and holding it at the lash end, looked swiftly round the serai.

From within came the Balti's protesting whine.

'By the prophet's beard―' Claverdon chuckled, balanced the whipstock in his hand, and then made the closed-in serai ring.

'Thieves! Thieves! Help—'

Almost instantly there was a yelp from within the stall, from the Balti as he guessed, wrung from him by a sudden prick of the knife; then, as the serai awoke, there came the sound of hurrying feet. A shadow leaped from the entrance, and Claverdon struck well and truly, so that the fugitive went sprawling in the muck. A second blow got the second man as neatly as the first, and as the lodgers in the serai came hurrying, the Balti staggered from the stable with the lantern in one hand and the other hand at his neck, whence the blood was flowing from a superficial wound.

Men shouted to him, demanding explanation, while Claverdon thoughtfully slid away, and from the deeper shadows of the serai listened to the vociferous explanations of the injured Balti. The tumult grew about the two prostrate men, and seeking shelter among some stacked bales, Claverdon chuckled again.

'The Balti will cook their goose to a nicety!' Then he grew thoughtful as he asked himself: 'How did those beggars knew? They must have watched like cats. The quicker I am out of there stable rags the better, and the serai is no safe place. There may be others―'

The serai gates, as he knew, were locked, and egress was not possible that way, and the only way was over the wall. That presented little difficulty to him, and in a very few minutes he was hurrying through the darkness of narrow streets seeking the sanctuary the serai had denied.

Chapter 6

PRECISELY AT ELEVEN the following morning, Charlesworth Sahib entered the store of Mordecai the Jew to look for the horse-coper's man, who would be bargaining for a sheepskin coat. The store was an emporium of things new and old, but mostly old; the latter including curios of price, old clothes that were not priceless, second-hand saddlery that smelt sourly, rust spotted knives which had probably cut men a throats, spices to flavour exotic dishes, and hanging from rusty nails, perhaps half a dozen of the sheepskin coats meant to keep the wearer from the bitter cold of the passes.

Charlesworth marked the coats and looked round for the prospective purchaser of one of them. He was not there, indeed, save for himself and a Mahomedan gentleman in white robes with a gold-edged turban on his head, who was talking to old Mordecai, the store was empty.

Charlesworth glanced at his watch, and then turned to look at the narrow street. As he did so, Mordecai left the Mahomedan gentleman and hurried to an inner room, whereat the Mahomedan strolled slowly down the store, pausing to examine some ancient bronze images. One of them by some ill-luck slipped from his finders and fell with a clatter among a pile of brass pots upon the floor. The noise did not bring old Mordecai from his office, but it caused the waiting Englishman to look round; and as he did so the white-robed one gave a sign.

'Well I'm blest!' whispered Charlesworth to himself, and as the other stooped and retrieved the image to restore it to its resting-place moved towards him. The Mahomedan gentleman did not speak, but carelessly took up a carved ivory and ebony bar inlaid with beaten silver, opening the lid to gaze thoughtfully into the interior for a moment. Then he set the box down, glanced carelessly at the Englishmen, and moved away. Charlesworth in turn examined the box, opening and closing the lid as the other had done, then getting it down again, grew interested in other things, noticeably in an ancient tulwar with a jewelled handle which hung on the dusty wall.

Mordecai came from his office again, looked at Charlesworth and then at the Moslem, who was now ranging about the store, examining the more costly things of the medley that was the stock in trade. After that single glance the Jew turned to Charlesworth, who carelessly asked the price of the tulwar.

Mordecai named an impossible sum, at which the Englishman jeered. 'You old shark! I'll start chaffering at half the figure, and pay you quarter, maybe!'

The owner of the store protested, and almost wept when the other continued to jeer. 'But, sir, it is a tulwar of the great days, and made for a prince's hand. There is not a weapon like it in all Kashmir, and if his Highness the Maharajah knew of it―'

'He would ask what thief stole it from the palace?' laughed the Englishman. Again the Jew protested volubly, but was not greatly broken-hearted when the other left without making the purchase; then he turned anew to the white-robed one, who was again examining the ebony and ivory box, and who, as Mordecai drew near, asked the price.

This time the owner of the store was more than reasonable, but the Moslem gentleman disputed the price in the immemorial way of the East, securing a reduction of two rupees, and finally left the store, carrying his purchase under his arm.

In the narrow street he paused and looked carefully round. Men of half a dozen races were going their ways, apparently all moving on their lawful occasions, and none of them showed anything but the most cursory interest in himself, and after a little time he began to stroll on between the mean wooden houses, until he reached a better-class house near the bank of the river. This, after another glance round, he entered, and made his way to an upper room, where, after making himself secure from interruption, he seated himself upon a divan, and, opening his recent purchase, took out a folded paper, which had not been there before Charlesworth had examined the box.

Unfolding it, be began to read, decoding it as he read. It was an answer to the message he had sent the previous night, and he found it profoundly interesting: —

'Answering yours.... Addition to Tunyang there are Moving Sands— Reg-i-Ruwan— forty miles north of Kabul... also Musical Sandhill of same name at Kalah-i-Kab, Afghan Seistan. Out of range at Sinai, Arabia, and Libyan Desert and other places... A hot scent, seemingly.— C.'

As he finished reading he remained for some minutes silently committing to memory the names that seemed to be important, then, striking a match, he lit the paper, let it burn to ashes on a brass tray, and carefully powdering the ashes in his palms, flung them out of the window. That done, he gave himself to thought.

The hot scent of which the telegram spoke seemed real enough. Reg-i-Ruwan, whether north of Kabul, or in Siestan, corresponded very well with Ringing Sands. Both places evidently had sands which had some peculiar property, but which of them was Ringing Sands it was hot easy to determine. It might be one or the other, or, again, it might be neither. The phenomenon of sounding sands was apparently not so rare as to exclude the possibility of some place unrecorded by travellers being the one that held the secret of the Jade Gateway.

He considered the matter for a long time without arriving at any helpful conclusion. There was, as he recognised, little immediate possibility of finding the particular locality of The Gate from the data in his hands. Further knowledge was needed before that could be achieved, and how that knowledge was to be obtained was not apparent. Nothing but lucky chance, as it seemed, would save him from a double journey to the two places in Afghanistan mentioned in Cavenagh's telegram.

He lit a cigarette and moved to a divan near the window which commanded the river. There was plenty of traffic on the waterway, but the season being late much of it was coming downstream, the passengers being Europeans returning from leave. He watched the boats with an absent look in his eyes whilst he further considered the problem before him, then into his view flashed a boat going up-stream— a handsome, flat-bottomed boat piled as he could see with rich cushions and having an expensive awning of silk, the last word in luxury, so far as hand-propelled craft were concerned.

As he watched the turbaned boatmen plying their heart-shaped paddles, momentarily leaving his problem, he found himself speculating idly who was the owner of the boat. Some native princeling, probably, he decided, or possibly some prosperous carpet merchant. His speculation ended abruptly as he caught sight of the passenger under the awning— a white woman with golden hair. He stared in amazement. The distance between the window and the boat was considerable, and he could not see the face closely, but he had a conviction of the woman's identity, and was stirred to prompt activity by it.

Hurriedly leaving the house he hired a boat, with instructions to paddle upstream and to overtake the gay craft ahead, promising ample reward for success. By the time he was afloat the boat he followed was well ahead, but soon the energy of his paddlers began to overtake it, and as they drew nearer he gave instructions to the man to pass it as closely as safety permitted. That, however, was not to be, for as they drove towards it, the craft they were pursuing changed its course, making for a house-boat anchored inshore.

To follow it too closely would have been to attract attention, but as it came to a standstill by the steps of the houseboat, Claverdon's craft, under his direction, moved sufficiently near to see the passenger disembark. He saw the woman, dressed in biscuit-coloured silk, mount the steps, make some remark to the boatmen, then stand for a moment watching the traffic on the river. There was nothing to obstruct his View, and he was near enough to set all doubts at rest. The woman was unquestionably Narani.

With his own boat moving slowly on, he watched her until she turned and disappeared; and then found himself confronted by a new problem. Should he call and finish the conversation which had suffered so dramatic an interruption four nights ago? He was strongly tempted to follow that course. There were many questions that he would have liked to ask, and he was on the point of giving his men word to drop down to the houseboat, when he remembered something that caused him to change his mind.

Narani might or might not know of his presence in Srinagar, but there was no wisdom in revealing himself to her in his present incarnation as a wealthy Moslem. There might be those who had already penetrated his disguise, as had the in traders in the serai an the previous night his first disguise, but he thought it unlikely; and to go to Narani might be to lose whatever security his hidden identity afforded.

In the end he decided against precipitate notion, being helped to that decision by a glance backward, which showed him the gay craft he had followed moving down-stream— without its passenger. Evidently the woman meant to stay on the house-boat for some little time; and if on further reflection he decided to seek an interview he would know where to find her. He returned slowly down-stream, directed the boatmen along one of the canals and having landed began to make his way in the direction of Mordecai's store.

When he arrived there, the Jew, who was busy chaffering with an Englishman and a couple of ladies, gave an almost imperceptible nod; and without invitation Claverdon walked straight into the private office at the end, and through a door at the farther end which opened on to a mixed store and lumber room, where the owner stacked things that might some day command a price, however small. In the middle of it, seated in the attitude of a meditating Buddha and jacking at an unclean hookah, was Nima-Tashi.

'O-ho!' laughed the Tibetan, 'We meet again, my friend. And there are things to speak of.'

Claverdon's eyes grew alert at the words. 'Then out with them, Nima. There may be need for haste.'

'Well, concerning the journey in the fire-carriage, where I rode packed with men cursed with wakefulness. At place where the train stayed to fill its belly with water came one who stared into the carriage long, his eyes fixed on me until I pinched his nose between finger and thumb that he might the better remember and when he howled and departed I followed him with my eyes and saw him enter the carriage in which thou didst sleep. Then was I minded to go after him; but had in remembrance the order given, and trusted thou wouldst be on the watch against surprise from cattle of his kind. There was trouble — possibly?'

'A little,' answered Claverdon with a laugh.

'That much I guessed. I saw the man again later at that place where we left the te-rain. He followed me as I walked through the town, but when we came to the river I turned swiftly and caught the man and being observed by none but children, who found pleasure in the sight, I tossed him in and ran, and thereafter have not seen him, nor any who might be acting with him.'

'Good! There is more to tell?'

'Nothing, my friend.'

'Then there are things that I must ask. You have been in Seistan, Nima?'

'Aye!'

'Did you ever go to Kalah-i-Kah?'

'Never; but I have heard of―' He checked himself sharply. A look of comprehension came on his broad face, an eager light in his eyes. 'By the jewel in the lotus!' he broke out, and then cried— 'Ringing Sands! There are sands at Kalah-i-Kah that make a humming noise when a thing is thrown into them or a man walks up them!'

'Yes! And there are others at Kohi Dahman by Kabul―'

'And I have heard of yet another sand slope that sings in a valley of the Tamils though I took it was a lying tale.'

'Ah!' Claverdon leaned forward, excitement shining in his eyes. ''Tell me, Nuna— all you know! The whereabouts of this place, for there, I will wager my life, is the Gate we seek.'

The light in the Tibetan's eyes faded a little.

'Alas! there is little to tell― just the tale of a camel-driver of Bokhara drunk with the white wine of Nishapur, who swore with many oaths that once in a valley between the great plains he had lost himself, and in a place between great rocks, with the moonlight streaming whitely upon it, he had come unexpectedly upon a slope of sand. It had seemed the only way down, but when he set foot upon it the valley was filled with singing— voices of ghostly houris from paradise, though he saw none, and was all alone in the valley. He had fled down the slope like a frightened horse, the singing pursuing him as he went, and at the bottom had passed a tomb, which proclaimed the place haunted. He had raced on till he fell almost dead of exhaustion, and with the morning had come to life again, at the far end of the valley, and as he stood there looking back, wonderingly had heard again that ghostly singing, but even with the sun lighting the hills had not dared to return to the place, which he had reached travelling eastward over the Wakhan. A drunkard's dream, belike, born of wine or opium, and remembered in sober hours!'

'But if it were not!' whispered Claverdon, more to himself than to Nima. 'If it were reality— a thing seen, and that which he heard not only the singing of a muddied brain―'

'Then by the gods it might be the place we seek!'

'Beyond question. Siestan is too far out, and the Reg-i-Ruwan by Kabul— too near that city to serve the purpose of those whose secret we follow. Tomorrow we start for the Wakhan Pamir—'

'Aye, but how do- we go?'

'As pedlars of Bokhara or Samarkand. With ponies laded with stores which Mordecai can supply we may escape suspicion—'

'And be shot by bandits in the bills, abroad for loot, or by— those others,' said Nima with a laugh.

Claverdon nodded. 'A possibility. But we shall have rifles to do a little shooting ourselves, if need be. I'll go back to Mordecai, He can buy the ponies am stores and assemble them on the Gilgit road on the farther side of Bandipur.'

'As you choose, my friend... I remain in this hole?'

'Yes,' Claverdon laughed. 'You are several sizes too large to escape notice  any should be looking for you, Nima.'

The Tibetan laughed back. 'Thus it is to be born a man and not a flea. But let me, also talk to the Jews of the things we need— for the wants of men in the Hills are known to me.'

'To none better,' agreed Claverdon, and went his way to talk to Mordecai.

BUT WHEN night fell and the moonlight was rippling on the Jehlam River, he borrowed the Jew's boat, and called Nima from his hiding-place to take the air. The Tibetan went with alacrity and watched him closely when he gave his orders, then chuckled aloud to himself. 'So we go to breathe the moonlight, hey?'' be asked in his native speech.

'And to call on a lady of our acquaintance,' replied Claverdon in the same tongue. At that Nima-Tashi almost jumped.

'The woman is here?'

'She was this morning. We go to make sure she is here to-night.'

He said no more, but stepped into the boat, and as the Tibetan followed, the boat started, running along the canal between the houseboats until they reached the Dal Gate and slipped into the moonlit river. Then they turned up-stream, and presently reached the vicinity of the houseboat, which Narani had boarded in the morning. There were lights burning, and a couple of flat-bottomed river boats were moored to the rail. Apparently Narani was still there, and the two boats implied visitors.

Claverdon considered a moment, then took a sudden resolution. He himself would make a call —as an uninvited guest. Giving the boatmen an order to row up to the houseboat, he whispered instructions to the Tibetan.

'Keep an open ear, Nima! If you hear me cry, come swiftly.'

'Have no fear!' chuckled the other. 'I have aforetime saved a man from a woman. But this one's eyes have power, and―'

The boat, mismanaged, bumped heavily against the steps of the houseboat, giving notice of their call, and before Claverdon had stepped on to the deck a chuprassi came running, and at the sight of Claverdon in native dress salaamed profoundly.

'Take me to your mistress,' he said in Urdu, and by the light of the swinging lamp saw a doubtful look come on the man's face. 'If you will wait . . .' began the man, and then checked. 'My mistress is much engaged. Almost now she goes on a journey. I do not think―'

'Go to her,' interrupted Claverdon harshly. 'Say that a friend would see her for a moment.'

The man moved towards a curtained doorway, from which light was streaming, and following swiftly Claverdon was at his heels as the man dragged the curtain aside. Within, standing full in the soft glow of a lamp, he saw Narani, and as he did so suffered a surprise. She was dressed neither in the clinging silks she had worn at the house in Delhi, nor in the native attire in which she had paid her nocturnal visit to his compartment in the train.

A long tunic adorned her shapely body, khaki riding-breeches, and riding-boots with spurs, set off her nether limbs, and a grey topi half concealed the golden hair. That the servant had spoken truly was evident to Claverdon in the first glance, and as the man in a troubled voice made the announcement as instructed, a look of surprise came on the beautiful face.

'Who―' she began, and in the same second her wonderful eyes encountered Claverdon's over her servant's shoulder. That in spite of his darkened face and turban she recognised him instantly was evident. A startled light leaped in her eyes, a look that he could not fathom came on her face; and as Claverdon thrust forward, for perhaps three seconds she stood there dumb. Then speaking in English, she cried in voice, low and tense, 'You?'

'I, madam, you will pardon my intrusion―'

He got no further. The woman made an imperative gesture.

'Go,' she cried urgently in the same tense voice. 'Go— at once; If you value your life!'

That she was in deadly earnest Claverdon had no doubt, and what was behind her urgency he could not guess, but desiring to learn he answered with deliberate levity— 'It is of more value to me than to—'

A quick step on the deck behind him broke on his. words. He heard Narani give a little inarticulate cry of consternation, and in  the same second, swung round to face the newcomer. As he did so he glimpsed a tall native, dressed for riding like the woman, and in the first glance recognised Rahman Ali. There was a look of curiosity on the man's eagle face, and as his eyes searched Claverdon's features, the Englishman saw a sudden change come over the man. A crafty light flashed in the eyes, and almost instantly he spoke.

'Your pardon, Narani, I intrude.'

He turned on his heel and walked back in the way that he had come, and even before he had disappeared the woman behind whispered again, imploringly: — 'Go! Go at once!'

That there was danger beyond what might be apprehended from a single man Claverdon guessed, but remembering Nima-Tashi waiting for his signal, he stood his ground.

'No!' he said quickly. 'That man―'

There was a sudden rush of feet along the deck. Nima-Tashi's voice sounded warningly; and divining that the peril of Narani's warning was developing swiftly, he stepped quickly from the narrow place to the doorway on to the open deck. He was perhaps two seconds too late. As he reached the open, he had a glimpse of three men rushing towards him, all armed.

Before he could act, two of them were within striking distance and the tulwars truck at the same moment. Either stroke would have been sufficient to split his head in half, but the men were in each other's way. The tulwars clashed together, and one, with its edge turned aside, caught him heavily on the side of the head, knocking him clean over the low rail into the river. He felt himself going, and as he fell was overcome by the darkness of unconsciousness, so that, short as the interval was, he never knew when he plunged into the current.

Chapter 7

'HO! HO!' To the sound of Nima-Tashi's laughter, Claverdon opened his eyes, and found his mouth burning with some pungent spirit. In the same instant a glass was thrust to his lips.

'Drink like a man, my friend. It will balance the water swallowed.'

He drank as directed. The spirit caught his breath and he half-choked, coughed stranglingly; and whilst Nima-Tashi, raising him, slapped his back with heavy hand, he heard Mordecai cry, 'Heaven be praised!'

He sat up and wiped the tears from his eyes, becoming conscious as he did so of an extreme soreness at the side of his head immediately above the temple. He touched the place with his hand and found a swelling.

'A lump like an egg,' explained Nima, 'but with shell uncracked. A near thing, my friend. First the tulwar, then the water.' He laughed as he added jestingly:— 'A prophet might say the rope yet waits.'

Claverdon, aroused to full consciousness, asked a question.

'What happened after the fall?'

'I caught one of those who struck by the sash and jerked him into the river, and would have thrown the other also, but for fear you were killed. The descending water runs fast there; and being afraid that what steel might not have done the water would surely do, we were forced to follow to rob the fishes of their food. As we went, that golden woman came on the deck and began to berate one whom I know not―'

'Rahman Ali.'

'That wild bird of the hills! I might have guessed. There is no more to tell, except that we hauled you from the hungry waters, so like a dead man that my  heart was lead for heaviness, and brought you here.'

'And those on the boat?'

'My concern was not with them! They may burn for me. But if again I meet Rahman Ali he goes swift to hell.'

Claverdon gave himself to thought for a moment, then spoke to the Jew.

'Mordecai, send your boatman to keep watch on those―?'

'Already they watch, Mr. Claverdon. I anticipated―'

'Good man! Then I will change into dry clothing. It may be necessary to so cut immediately they firing any word. Your hand, Nima.'

The Tibetan, giving him a hand, swung him to his feet and steadied him for a moment. Then he followed Mordecai into a private apartment, and whilst he changed into the dry clothes which the Jew provided swiftly reviewed the situation.

He had no doubt whatever that the attack made upon him had been instigated by Rahman Ali; and that Narani had feared some such event was proved by the urgent warning words she had spoken. But what vas Rahman Ali doing there? And why were both of them dressed for riding at this hour of the night? That they were going on a journey, and starting immediately, seemed to be the only possible answer to the last question; and as his mind made it another questioned followed immediately: —

'Where are they going?'

Again his mind found an answer — to Ringing Sands. Their presence at Srinagar, the jumping-off place for the North or for the Eastward Road into Tibet, was some indication of that. If Nima-Tashi's story of the Bokhariat camel-driver's adventure were true, and there were sounding sands in some remote Pamir valley, it was almost certain, that they would be going there along the road which ran through Gilgit and Hunza, unless in those wild mountains there was some secret track that they knew of and proposed to follow.

His mind worked quickly, and whilst he sought to understand the situation and to grasp the possible relationship between the golden-haired Narani and Rahman Ali— the wild slip of a barbaric stock— happening to glance through the window in the direction of the river, he became aware of a cloud of thick smoke obscuring the moonlight, smoke that, whilst he watched, took an orange tinge. Somewhere, he reflected, there was a fire, and a fire in a city with many wooden houses might be an extremely serious matter.

A knock at the door broke on his thought, and he heard the Jew's voice touched with excitement, 'Mr. Claverdon! Mr. Claverdon!'

He opened the door quickly, to see the Jew's dark eyes glowing with excitement. 'My men are back, sir, with news. That house-boat they went to watch they found burning―'

'Ah!' Claverdon looked in the direction of the glow and then snapped a question.

'Was there anything seen of the owner of the house-boat?'

'Nothing.'

Claverdon stood in thought for the moment. That the house-boat had been deliberately fired was possible, even probable; but whether the fire was accidental or deliberate, it meant that neither Narani nor Rahman Ali would return there, and he was morally certain that already they had started on the journey for which they had been preparing at the moment of his call. If they were indeed going North together, it probably meant that the mystery that was behind Ringing Sands was ripening to harvest, and that it he were to accomplish his purpose and unmask that mystery before harm could issue he had no time to waste.

He turned to the Jew.

'Mordecai, those ponies and stores must be at rendezvous beyond Bandipur at the earliest moment.'

The Jew nodded.

'Already the stores are on the way and my nephew has gone to purchase the ponies.'

'Good! Then in the morning, before sunrise, Nima and I will leave by boat, if you will arrange. To-night we sleep here.'

'As you please, sir. The arrangements shall be made.'

AND SO IT FELL that, with a couple of Kashmaris to help with the ponies, two days later, from a lonely place beyond Bandipur where the Gilgit Road starts, Claverdon and his lieutenant moved northward on their adventure. Their caravan was small enough; but in appearance they filled the book as traders from beyond the Hills to perfection, and none would be likely to challenge their identity, save such as were on the watch for them. Having news of a small caravan two days' march in front of them, they pushed the pace, suspecting that with it rode Narani and Rahman Ali.

Not once, however, did they come in sight of the caravan, but at the crest of the Tragbal Pass, where a violent and bitter wind drove them to shelter with a Kashmiri merchant, they had news of a white woman riding with three natives, which convinced Claverdon that they were in the wake of the pair. Cheered by that conviction, they marched on by the bleached bones of many transport animals which gave sinister warning; then along the valley of Kishenjunga, through the fir forests to Garais, where, in a wretched hole that offered shelter for the night, Claverdon heard a whisper of the secret expectation that was quickening in the wild valleys.

Breathing the foetid air in a mud-walled hovel, he talked with a man who accepted him for what he seemed, and heard of the rumours afloat in the hill villages, rumours akin to that which be had overheard in the serai at Srinagar. The man, a low-browed, fierce-eyed, much-bewhiskered hill-man, whetted a big knife the while he crooned inarticulately to himself. Claverdon had watched him for some time, when suddenly the man looked up from his task.

'Thou art of the Faith?'

'Aye,' answered Claverdon. 'May all infidels burn in hell.'

The Hill-man chuckled. 'They soon will if tales be true.'

'What tales?' asked Claverdon, in the way of a man hungering for news.

'That the Imam Medi is soon to manifest himself, and establish the Faith in the earth.'

Claverdon simulated a fanatical excitement.

'I had not heard that. It is great news— if it be true.'

'Oh, it is true! The will of Allah is to be done. The time and place are known. I heard a mullah preaching it in Astor, wherefore I sharpen the knife, as do others, until the rifles are given to us.'

'Rifles?'

'Aye. They are plentiful as sticks in a forest. Each man who chooses may have two, with more cartridges than he can parry.'

'But the Sirkar will not allow the rifles to come up the road―'

'They come not up the road, but from Bokhara, where are those who have accepted the true Faith, and are the enemies of the Sirkar, though once they fought with it.'

'The Russians?' cried Claverdon.

'Aye! They serve the Faith, and will send an army to march with the Imam when he is manifested. Allah be praised.'

Claverdon was in no way surprised: and instead of pursuing that particular line harked back a little.

'The time and the place of the coming of the Imam are known, thou saidst. Where is the place, and when the day?'

'The place is The Gate of Ringing Sands, and the day is Roz Juma, or so the Mullah said.'

'Where is this place of the miracle? I would see the great thing.'

'That I know not. But it is up there somewhere.'

He jerked his head, indicating the north, and added with a laugh, 'I am no miracle-lover: but there are riches to be gathered, and when the Imam comes this way, then I march with him to spoil the infidel.'

The fellow began to croon again, and continued to whet his knife in preparation for the great day of Islam; and assured that he had learned all that he had to tell, Claverdon forbore to question him further; but impelled by a sense of urgency, in the morning resumed his way northward whilst the stars were still in the sky, and in the teeth of a blistering wind he journeyed he had accumulating evidence of the expectation of prodigious events that was abroad.

In every collection of huts on the road the news of the manifestation was being whispered; a secret agitation betrayed itself everywhere, and the atmosphere of the villages was electric— almost explosive. Accustomed as he was to the fanaticism of the north, he had known nothing like the silent tenseness that was everywhere betrayed; and he divined that behind the propaganda there was somewhere an organising brain beyond that which any crazy mullah eye? boasted. Was that brain Rahman Ali's? Or— the thought, was sufficiently startling— was it Narani's?

There were, he knew, incredible elements there. Remembering the subordinate position of women in Islam, it seemed an impossible thing that any woman could direct a great Islamic movement. But even as his mind made the objection, he recalled that Ayesha, the prophet's favourite wife, had ridden with him into battle; that it was she who had secured to her father the succession of Mahomed's shoes, and had later led an army against the Caliph Ali. Since the Mother of Believers had so influenced the early history of the Faith, in this wild, fanatical, superstitious world of the hills there was nothing really incredible in the thought of an astute woman inspiring a new Jehad and carrying the turbulent tribes to battle.

He remembered the rumour that she was Russian, recalled the hill-man's gossip of Russian help when the Imam should be manifested, and found his mind inclining to the belief that possibly the brain was hers, and that Rahman Ali was to be no more than an instrument in her hand.

The thought abode with him as they dropped down the Astor Valley with its perpendicular cliffs so fantastically shape, and as the height of Nanga Parbit— locally the Mountain of the Gods— dominated the landscape, so the thought dominated his mind. There were many women in history who had used nations as pawns, many who had played the deuce and lit great fires with less inflammable material than a border Khan of fanatic race. Anything was possible that way— and with the hills explosive with expectancy as they were, a woman of genius might prove a spark to set the trouble off.

In the bazaar at Astor he heard the same whisperings of expectation, sense the same underground excitement, and knew that as the stir of the wind or the touch of the sun looses the avalanche on the mountain heights, so the multitudes were waiting for that secret thing that would send them roaring; in rapine down the passes.

He hurried forward to Doyan, across the blistering Hatter Pir, to Rhamgat— once the Shaitan Nara— the Devil's Bridge, and on to Gilgit, halting only as necessary and making no endeavour to communicate with any of his race.

At last, lean and worn, with eyes feverishly bright in their hollows he saw the triple peak of Rakapushi lifting itself from lesser hills twenty-six thousand feet into the air.

Two days later, in the dusk of the afternoon, a weary man, with Nima-Tashi worn to silence, he entered Baltit, and as he walked between the mud and stone buildings knew that the first stage of his journey was finished.

The lodging-place he found was in a house built round a courtyard, in a heavily beamed room, with rafters smoke-blackened from the hearth in the. middle of the floor. The  place was windowless, but had an unglazed skylight through which the smoke from the fire found outlet, and with Nima-Tashi snoring on the raised platform which ran round the room, he himself squatted, staring at the fire with watery eyes stung by the smoke, utterly weary.

But with sleep driven away by anxious thought. From the moment of starting the pace had been forced. Two days had been cut out of the ordinary time occupied by the journey from Srinagar to Hunza, yet, as he reflected gloomily, he had seen nothing of Narani or Rahman Ali, and only once had he heard what might be news of them. They had, as it seemed, vanished into the air in a district where the tracks were few, and where stark mountains barred the way to any who would leave the main route.

He was puzzled and disturbed, wondering if he had overshot the pair, and was following a wild goose chase in seeking the place spoken of by Nima-Tashi. Suppose the Gate that he sought were somewhere further south, reached by some by-path through the wild hills? Anything, as he recognised, was possible in the mountain fastnesses, and in some valley, the entrance to which was hidden, might be the gateway that he sought.

A whirl of smoke made him cough, and for better ventilation he rose and opened the door leading to the courtyard, and there for a moment he stood inhaling the clean night air. At that precise instant someone loading a pony entered the courtyard through the arched gateway, and as he shouted the owner of the house hurried towards him. Speculating who the latecomer was, Claverdon stood listening, and presently caught a word or two which made him cock his ears wonderingly.

The Baltic proprietor, unlike the men of his race, was almost grovelling in his servility, the newcomer utterly masterful in his demands.

'Within one hour I return, and a fresh pony must be waiting— saddled and bridled.'

'It shall be done, Excellency.'

'No mangy screw, mind you! But a beast of blood. I have far to go before daybreak.'

'The best in Baltit,' was the answer, given humbly. Claverdon was intrigued. The conversation was in Kanjut; but one of the speakers had an accent that none born in the hills ever had, and it was easy to guess that he was not a native. Who was he? He was still wondering, when the newcomer spoke again.

'I am thirsty! Bring me a draught of wine. The pony will stand.'

The owner of the house hurried away and the man waiting in the courtyard struck a match to light a cigarette. Claverdon crouched low in the dark doorway, and as the match flared caught sight of the man's face, a lean, harsh face, bearded, with a purple birthmark over and under the left eye, which gave him the appearance of having suffered a severe blow. As he saw that noticeable disfigurement Louis Claverdon was assailed by a sense of familiarity.

Somewhere in his life he had met a man marked precisely as that man out there was marked. He strove to remember where, watching with absorbed eyes the glowing end of the cigarette in the darkness. But the remembrance would not come. Try as he would, the place and time of that meeting evaded him. His brain conjured the vision of the face readily enough; but dis-severed from anything that would have helped him to recall the place of the encounter and so aid the identification.

He was still perplexing himself when the proprietor returned, evidently bearing the wine; for Claverdon heard him say, 'There is no better wine in Hunza.'

Then came two words from the other which made the Englishman start, and which instantly linked the present with the past in dazzling remembrance:—

'Allah birdi!'

That was a Cossack saying when drinking— 'God save'— and the man who spoke those two revealing words was a Cossack.

'Ivan Melnikoff— by all the gods of Asia!'

He could have shouted in sheer amazement, and then for one moment the past surged back on him in a flood. He was with Knox's little force in that international adventure in Siberia, of which Kolchak was the leading figure, and the tide was turning against the raw troops of the ill-starred Admiral, who was falling back from Ufa before the Bolshevik array. But at that place there had been one who, with a whole regiment, had not fallen back, but had waited, sure of his reward— and that man had been the man drinking out there in the dark, Ivan Melnikoff, then a Cossack captain. Among the last to leave, Claverdon had seen that treacherous move— mercenary's trick— and as he ran for his life cursed the man who sold his sword and his cause.

'But, in God's name, what's he doing here?'

The question followed close on the heels of that flashing remembrance, and whilst he groped for an answer he heard the man make a move towards the arch that led from the courtyard. His decision was made in a moment. He must follow the man and, if possible, learn his business in Balti. He waited until the proprietor of the house began to lead the pony towards the stall, then, noiselessly as a cat, he slid forward out of the courtyard in the wake of the unsuspecting Cossack. In the miserable street the echo of the other's footsteps came to him clearly, and he had no difficulty in following the sound; nor, since Melnikoff did not so much as look behind him, was he in any risk of being discovered.

The crazy street swung upward. There was a gap in the houses, and then the sound of shodden feet ahead of him ceased, and there followed a noisy rat-a-tan on a wooden door. Hidden by the night, Louis Claverdon crept forward and, as he did so, caught the creaking complaint of unoiled hinges. A harsh voice asked a question; Melnikoff's voice replied. The pound of well-shodden feet commenced again, a door crashed noisily, and, guessing that the man he had followed had left the street, he moved quickly forward.

The blind wall of a house lifted itself in the night. By the light of the stars he made out a gateway with the wooden gate closed. He felt the door carefully, pressing it with a knee to make sure; and after a second silent attempt to thrust it open, desisted, guessing that it must be barred or barricaded within.

Then standing quite still, every nerve alert for any hostile movement, he considered the problem presented by that closed door. It was not an easy one. There seemed to be no way of solving it short of rapping and boldly seeking admission. But that way, as he recognised, afforded small chance of success. Since the Cossack had been challenged, it was not likely that by adopting a bold course he himself could escape scrutiny, and he would most certainly be denied an entrance or meet with downright hostility.

Carefully he began to examine the place, tracing the outer wall and feeling with his hands to discover any rough place by which he might ascend to the house-root. He had almost completed the current before he found the spot. where with toes and fingers a man used to rock-climbing might succeed. Cautiously he began to make the attempt, succeeding beyond his expectations, and once he was on the flat coping he seated himself and removed his boots, tying them round his neck. Then he looked about him. A faint glow and a little drift of wood smoke, a short distance away, proclaimed an open skylight; and since no other skylight was visible, silently, as became a man who carried his life in his hand, began to make his way across the roof. Without mishap he arrived at the open trap, and, kneeling, carefully peeped over the edge into the below.

Immediately beneath him was the fire, a crude lamp afforded added illumination, and through the haze of smoke Claverdon saw the Cossack seated on a low couch, whilst a little apart was a second man, from his dress a Hunza man of importance. As he saw them, a word or two drifted upward.

'—Rahman Ali will lead the Faithful.'

The speaker was Melnikoff, and there was a contemptuous note in his voice.

'Aye,' the Hunza man chuckled, 'and when the victory is won and we are in the Plains, then the Faithful will deal with the fool who dared to personate the Imam Medi, and honest men will gather the spoil.'

Ivan Melnikoff laughed. 'The hawk may feast on the pigeon. I care not.'

'But my portion shall be in the hills here. The castle on the height and tho chair of the Thum. My grandfather ruled in the hills, and but for my father's death at the hands of Safdar Ali I also should have ruled these twenty years.'

'You shall rule the whole Border, once the Plains are ours. That is the promise of my government.'

'And the golden woman who is with Rahman Ali shall also be my portion. That is part of the price―'

'Woman?' Melnikoff's voice interjected sharply. 'I know not of any woman.'

'But there is one, a white woman such as I have never seen before; with eyes that are like smoky pools of darkness and hair that is more golden than gold in sunlight―'

'Her name?' cried the Cossack harshly, and there was a note in his voice which moved Claverdon to lean forward that he might see the speaker's face. He found the sight sufficiently interesting. Melnikoff's eyes were blazing. There was a startled, eager look upon his hard face, and he was leaning forward staring at the Kanjut as if he were about to spring upon him. The other laughed.

'Nay, I have heard it, but it has gone from my mind. But she rode with him from the south, and goes with him to Ringing Sands.'

'But Rahman Ali does not yet know the place where he is to be manifested as Imam.'

'He will wait at a village in the hills till he is called there. And the woman―'

'You would know her name if it were spoken again in your ears, Wazir? Was it Narani?'

'That is the name,' cried the Wazir. 'There is in it the ripple of running water. The woman is known to thee?'

'Known?' Ivan Melnikoff laughed harshly. 'So well known that I swear that if the woman is not found before Rahman Ali receives the call to Ringing Sands our whole enterprise is ruined.'

'Then the golden woman is a traitor?'

The Wazir laughed. 'All the better. We will teach her loyalty. And if she will not learn, then when she is no longer wanted there is the market at Bokhara, where she will fetch a price.'

As he spoke the Wazir kicked the wood of the fire, sending up a shower of sparks and a heavy cloud of smoke. His action was so entirely unexpected that before Claverdon could withdraw his head the smoke caught his throat, half choking him. He coughed violently, and while the paroxysm was still on him, through the tears in his eyes, saw the Wazir staring upwards in wrathful amazement, whilst on the Cossack's face was a look of utter consternation. For a moment the pair remained thus, as if frozen into immobility, then the Kanjut gave a shout.

'Shietan! A spy. Ho! Ho! there!'

He was shouting for help, but the Cossack, quicker to act, whipped a pistol from a holster, and before the other had finished his words, fired upward.

Claverdon fell backward just in time, then picking himself up ran to the edge of the roof. Already there was a sound of voices in the courtyard round which the house was built, a noise of feet running for the gate. He had little time he knew, and no time at all to put on his boots. He lowered himself over the coping, tried to find a place to rest his toes, failed, then slipped and fell heavily to the ground. The distance was not great, but it shook the breath out of him, and for a second, a little dazed, he lay staring up at the white stars. Then, as he heard a door crash, the door that gave admission to the courtyard as he guessed, he gathered himself up and, in his stockinged feet, began to run through the starlit darkness.

Chapter 8

WITHOUT ANY KNOWLEDGE of his direction, Louis Claverdon ran straight ahead, desperately hoping that he might not be in a blind alley. The stones hurt his feet cruelly, but he ran on until something lifted itself in front of him, a mere shadow in the darkness, and so near that he almost crashed into it before he saw it. It was a wall of loose stones, and from the boughs of a tree which overhung and outlined themselves against the stare he guessed that beyond was a garden. Voices sounded from his left,  there was a noise of running feet in his rear, and he knew that over the wall was his only way.

Without delay he began to clamber up it. He reached the top safely, and dropped down oh the farther side just as a shout told him that he had been seen. Desperately he ran on between the trees of the fruit garden, and as he ran heard men clambering the wall. He came suddenly on a house, and as he swerved charged directly into a man who came out of the night, apparently from nowhere.

The man gripped and held him, and then, as shouts came from the far end of the garden and as Claverdon began to struggle with him, gave a laugh, and said in the Kanjut speech: — 'Steady, my friend. If those hounds seek thee―'

'They do!' Claverdon answered In a swift whisper. 'A matter of a woman―'

'Then it is death! Come! Silently.'

The pursuers were beating the orchard, shouting to each other, and Claverdon surrendered himself to a guiding hand, which he divined to be friendly; and a minute and a half later slipped through a low doorway into a room utterly dark save for the faint glow of embers in a sunken hearth.

'This way,' whispered the owner of the house as, having softly closed to the door, he gripped Claverdon's hand. They crossed the room, and the man spoke again.

'There are the steps. They can be felt with the hand. It will be safe in the room above if, as is likely, those who seek revenge knock upon the door.'

Claverdon's groping hands found a tree trunk with notches cut in it, and as he groped for the lowest notch with his toes, he experienced a momentary pang of doubt. If this unknown man were to play him false in that upper room he would be like a rat in a hole. Then reassurance came. If the man had wished to betray him, he would have shouted to his pursuers when he had gripped him in the garden.

That thought decided him; that and the sound of excited voices beyond the door. Swiftly he climbed the notched trunk that served for stairs and passed through a square hole to the floor above. There he stood, listening. The shouting in the garden grew, then came a noisy rapping at the door below.

Breathlessly Claverdon waited. Would the pursuers search the house? If they did, he was in a parlous case; but as he felt under his fringed coat for the automatic that he carried he put apprehension from him. One man, he reflected, armed as he was, could defend a manhole in the floor against a score. He heard the door open and excited voices asking questions— among them, as he was sure, Melnikoff's. The man who had come to his help replied:—

'No man has entered here, my friends. If he had, should I not have known it? What manner of man do you look for?'

'That is not known save that he is tall―'

'You will find many who are that in Hunza,' answered the householder. 'What is the man's crime?'

Claverdon caught his breath again. The explanation he had given to account for his plight had been the first that had occurred to him; but if the men at the door gave a different explanation, called him thief or spy. then the man whom he had deceived might conceivably change his mind. Relief came to him a moment later.

'What is that to you, man? We waste time if you have not seen the rascal. And you―'

The Cossack's tongue was violently contemptuous; but on it, before he could proceed, came a warning 'S-s-s-h-h!— Excellency. It is not well to incur the wrath of the priests.'

Melnikoff gave a grunt; a mollifying voice explained in tones so low that Claverdon could catch only a word or two; and there followed a -sound of retreating steps, whilst a voice growled:—

'The bird we seek has found its perch long ago! This is foolishness!'

Claverdon, listening carefully, caught the scraping of a match, and a faint illumination followed. Evidently his host, a priest, if he had heard aright, had lit a lamp; but he made no move to call his guest to the lower chamber. Claverdon himself remained quite still. The sound of voices came to him still, but whilst he waited, died away, leaving the night profoundly still. Then from below came the hail he was expecting:—

'Come down, my friend, all is quiet.'

He put the pistol away and descended the ladder; and as he reached the floor below, for the first time really saw the man who had come to his help— a tall, robust man, heavily-bearded, dressed like a mullah, with alert eyes that returned stare for stare whilst they apprised him. Then into the mullah's eyes came a flicker of amusement. It was more than a flicker, that passed as swiftly as it appeared, leaving the eyes stern and full of rebuke as their owner spoke sententiously: —

'The curse of Allah is on all evildoers!' Remembering that flash of amusement, and recalling that all mullahs were by no means as austere as St. Anthony, Claverdon was not unduly overcome by the utterance. He lived up to his assumed iniquity and answered with an impudent, grin:—

'Aye; but He who made women fair and yielding will not be unmerciful.'

The flicker of amusement shone again,

'Then woman was fair then?'

'As the dawn on the, snows.'

'And she listened?'

'With both ears and hungry mouth.'

The flicker broadened suddenly to full laughter, and the man cried in English: —

'What a d―d Lothario you are Louis!'

At the words Claverdon stared at the other with amazed eyes, seeking to penetrate what was evidently a disguise. Then the truth came to him.

'Dick Waldron!' he cried, astonished.

The other laughed.

'No; in my present incarnation Mullah Muhammed Darya, fortunately for an unbelieving Don Juan.'

'But I thought you were up Hissar way!'

'I was two months ago. But as the game shifts the hunter follows. And you?'

'I'm after that Gate of Ringing Sands of which you passed word to Cavenagh, and on a fairly hot scent.'

The pseudo-mullah gave a jerk of his head in the direction of the door.

'Those fellows have tumbled to your game?'

'Not exactly! They don't know me— but I know one of them, and you know him— a Cossack. Ivan Melnikoff―'

'Melnikoff!' A look of astonishment came on the other's face. 'He is here?'

'Yes! Know anything about him?'

'Nothing good. He's the Red agent in Bokhara, sort of little God-Almighty, and the fomenter of trouble through all this end of Asia. If we could only scoop him up it would be a perfect godsend. But he has friends everywhere, and I question if the Resident would move lest he should start an avalanche. For the moment only secret action is possible.... How did you spot-light the fellow?'

Claverdon gave him a swift account of the events that had made him a fugitive, and at the end Waldron spoke sharply.

'Then the Reds are behind Ringing Sands! That's a certainty. The thing's serious, Claverdon. If I've heard the name once in the last few weeks, I've heard it a hundred times; and there's a stir in the air up here―'

'I've felt it.'

'Secrets are being whispered, knives are being sharpened; and if the thing eventuates there's going to be the devil to pay. Chitral and the Malakand will be child's play to this business, if it comes off. The Reds are out to throw the empire out of its stride, and are following the old Russian game of setting the tribesmen aflame. They had a try-on at the end of the war in that Afghanistan business, which the Raj handled too lightly.... Have you heard of this Imam Medi business that is the explanation of Ringing Sands?'

'Yes! From what I overheard to-night Rahman Ali is to be the tool in that— the tool and dupe of cleverer brains than his own.'

'Um. He's a wild bird— with brains. I'm not so sure about his being a ready dupe. If he's to be a Moslem Messiah, once the thing is started he's capable of taking charge and pulling the thing off. From what I know about him, it is even money that he is proposing to use the Reds much in the same way as the Reds are planning to use him. He's as ambitious as Lucifer, and no pliant tool for a scheming hand.... But where in Allah's name is this confounded Gate of Ringing Sands? It may be anywhere on the border from Landi Khotal to the Kara Korams.'

'It's in the Pamirs,' answered Claverdon with conviction, and began to give his reasons. Before he had finished Waldron interrupted him excitedly.

'By the prophet's beard, you've got it, Claverdon; What a dolt I am! I ought to have guessed the explanation. I was up at Reg'-i-Ruwan once, and heard the Sands roaring when an Afghan walked down them. And I heard a yarn about some sort of Kohistan fanatic who lived in a cave there and claimed to be the Imam. He had disciples, twenty thousand of them, all as mad as himself, who dressed up like birds and beasts and marched on Kabul. History repeats itself with a vengeance. This Mahdi dodge is always sure of adherents, for religion is yet the most potently attractive force in the world— particularly when it's of the camel-drivers red-hot brand.... And the Reds are just the cattle to exploit it. Religion one way or another is nothing to them. They hate it, and it is just the kind of thing the? would revel in to use the Moslems to destroy the Christians. ... And you think this place is in the Pamirs?'

'Well, the Gobi Desert is off the map, and the two Afghan places are doubtful, because they would mean the Ameer was in the business, or lends a countenance of benevolent neutrality to it— which isn't likely, for he learned a lesson in that affair in 19—'

'That business ought to have been pushed home. The Raj was too tender!'

'Yes! But all the same it weights the scales against both Seistan and that Kabul place, and leaves this unregistered place in the Pamirs as the one really I likely spot.'

'That is true, and Melnikoff's the big Voice up there. Upon my word, I believe you're in the way of bottoming the business, old man.'

'My business is to scupper it before it gets going. And I've got to get into touch with Rahman Ali and the woman Narani, who they say is Russian. It seems pretty clear that the Cossack and the woman between them are engineering the whole business, and if I can find her and Rahman Ali―'

'Melnikoff may lead you to them.'

'I am thinking of that every moment I am here. I must get away soon. I know where to find the fellow, and if I can trail him―'

'I'd give a cool thousand to go with you. But I'm tied down to this affair of Miss Wargrave. I've wondered sometimes If there is any connection between her abduction and Ringing Sands.'

'Cavenagh has a conviction there is―'

'Then, by Jove, we may meet again up there. The scent I'm on leads that way: but I can't move until another man does, and he is as slow as a beetle.'

Claverdon went to the door, opened it and stood listening. There was no sound to cause alarm, and he stared across the orchard in the direction of the house from which be had fled for his life. He could not see it; but as he stood there he was strongly tempted to return. Melnikoff and the Wazir by this time had in all probability resumed their secret conference, and there might be secrets to be learned. The certainty that now the house would be watched deterred him. A man, as he knew, must take his risks, but to sign one's own death-warrant was not desirable.

'I must go,' he said.

'Then I'll come with you as far as your lodgings,' Waldron laughed. 'Those hill-men do not love mullahs overmuch, but they have respect for them. Till a man takes up the role of fanatical holiness he can't possibly know what a power religion is.... I'll just take a look round before we start Those fellows who were after you may have left a watch outside my gate. Wait until I return.'

He disappeared round the house and was away some five minutes. On his return he said crisply:—

'All clear, Claverdon; we'll start.'

They left the house together and passed into a deserted alley, and by devious paths made, their way to Claverdon's lodgings. Just as they reached the gateway to the courtyard, they heard voices within and a clatter of hoofs.

'Melnikoff!' whispered Claverdon, and fell back in the shadows. 'He is off early. Got the wind up, maybe, and I desperately want to know which way he goes— but there'll be my ponies to pack―'

'Leave him to me. I'll follow him till I'm sure of his road, and bring you word—' He broke off as two men emerged from the gateway, one of them leading a pony.

As they reached the open, the leader of the pony spoke.

'The beast is a good one, Excellency.' The man addressed spoke curtly.

'If he will carry me to the Kara Nullah, he will be.'

'North!' whispered Waldron under his breath as the Cossack mounted. 'No need for me to shadow him.'

Melnikoff moved off, the man with him walking a few yards by his side; and leaving the pseudo-mullah, Claverdon slipped into the court yard and, reaching his lodging-place, wakened the snoring Nima-Tashi.

'In Sheitan's name―' began the Tibetan growlingly.

'No!' whispered Claverdon. 'In the name of the God of Luck! The game's afoot, my friend, and we go to the hunt.'

The Tibetan grunted, rolled over, and looked up at the open skylight to the stars. 'We travel in the night?'

'As near the quarry as we dare— yet sufficiently far off not to be heard. And we travel without the Kashmiris, whose contract ends here.'

'We follow that eaglet— Rahman Ali?'

'No! But one who, I suspect, is teaching him to use wings and talons. A bigger man. A Russian!'

'God's curse on the race!' said Nima, standing up. 'The last time I went to Bokhara they stole my camels.'

'This man,' answered Claverdon, 'is the biggest bandit of them all!... I will go see the owner of the rest-house and explain that if we stay here longer there will be none to pay him but the fleas.'

'If we took toll from them,' laughed Nima, 'he would be the richest man in all Hunza. But away, I will see the Kashmiris load the ponies.'

Claverdon did not put it to the proprietor of the house quite in the manner he suggested; but as he explained the need for departure, he saw suspicion kindle in the fellow's eyes, which the solatium that he offered did nothing to banish. The man was more than suspicious, there was a hint of hostility in his manner; and Claverdon, desiring to banish it, had an inspiration. Feeling in the recesses of his coat, he produced the jade ornament with its carved gateway, and, opening his hand, let the man see it. The effect was electrical. Hostility and suspicion vanished like mists in the sun.

'Allah is great. I am the servant of those who serve Him. Had I but known of the symbol! There was one here but now who might have ridden with ye.'

Claverdon risked a question. 'One who rides to The Gate―'

'Aye!'

'By the Kara Nullah?' he asked again. 'The way is not known to me beyond there.'

The other chuckled. 'It is a secret way. At the head of the nullah there is a house, and the road goes through.'

'A clever device,' laughed Claverdon, thinking in a mental aside that there were difficulties ahead. 'The house is well guarded, as becomes the way to so great a secret?'

'One man only in the house; but a score with rifles in the rocks on either hand, and others on the hills above. Not a rat could pass them. A gong hangs at the door, and if it is struck as a man passes through the house he dies swiftly.'

'So may all unbelievers die!' said Claverdon with fierce piety. Then he ventured another question. 'That Gate is far beyond the nullah?'

'Five days' march. But the track is marked, for many have gone that way of late.'

'Good! I would not be late for the miracle by reason of wandering in the hills.'

'I wait for it here. But when the Imam is manifested I march with his banner, down to the fat plains to spoil the infidels.'

'There will be enough to enrich an army,' exulted Claverdon, and as he caught Nima's voice turned to the courtyard.

He hungered to question the man further, but fearful of awakening his suspicions anew refrained; and a little over an hour later took the northern road, with Nima-Tashi, and no more than four ponies, two of which carried stores.

Dawn found them moving up the upper Kanjut Valley, hedged in between lofty mountains, and sometimes with a closer fence of rocky walls, broken by gorges in which silt and detritus, the refuse cast down from the heights above, made broad fans which opened out into the main valley.

Soon they passed the cultivated places, and followed a solitary trail, where the flying eagles were the only sign of life. Late in the afternoon they stumbled on a few stone huts set by one of the fans, but passed without stopping, and that night camped in solitude by the river, without once having seen the Cossack whom they followed. Three days later in the late afternoon they arrived at a deep nullah leading from the main track, at the entrance of which sat a man watching a few goats cropping the scanty herbage, but who plainly bad another occupation, for on their appearance he promptly gripped a rifle and rose to his feet.

'The Kara Nullah,' whispered Claverdon.

'I would wager my eyes on it,' replied Nima, and with an air of assurance drove the ponies forward. The goatherd, a woolly looking ruffian, with sore eyes and the features of a depraved Jew, stepped forward truculently, and as he did so Nima-Tashi loosened his knife in its sheath.

'Steady. Nima!' warned Claverdon, and, recalling his experience with the man of the rest-house, before the man could speak showed him the jade trinket. Instantly the truculence vanished.

'Ye are servants of The Gate?'

'Of The Gate where the Sands ring; and of him who comes on the Holy Friday,' answered Claverdon with fanatical unction.

The man accepted the statement without question, waving them forward; but Claverdon was in no hurry, for there was a thing of which he desired to make sure.

'There is one ahead of us who is of the Russians and the master of Bokhara, who is also a servant of The Gate.'

'It is nine hours since he rode this way,' answered the goatherd. 'But his beast is fresh, being exchanged here for the one he rode.'

He looked at Claverdon's weary animals and spoke his mind. 'If ye seek him ye will not overtake him this side of The Gate.'

'No matter,' replied Claverdon. 'We shall meet him there.'

He gave the word to Nima, nodded to the goatherd-sentinel, and moved in the wake of the ponies.

The nullah was very deep, and a spidery track followed the bawling stream which ran among the boulders at the bottom; and as they progressed the sides grew more precipitous, the track more difficult to follow, winding in and out among the stones, climbing now a steep place, and then, running along a rocky shelf where there was scarcely room for a loaded pony to pass. With darkness falling, they were at last driven to camp, on a place strewn with boulders, where a few tufts of sickly looking grass offered forage for the ponies. No fire was possible, owing to the lack of fuel; and as they sat eating an unappetising meal. Nima-Tashi, looking up the gorge-like valley, offered a single comment.

'This,' said he, 'is the gut of hell.'

It was, indeed, an eerie place, Stygian in its darkness, save for the few stars which hung high up in the infinite blackness. There chanced to be no wind, and only the babbling of the stream and an occasional fall of detritus shooting from the heights broke the stillness, and when they gave themselves to sleep both, accustomed as they were to wild places, were oppressed by a sense of the unrelieved gloom.

Four hours or so later Claverdon was awakened by a clutching hand shaking him, and, opening his eyes, in the light of the risen moon striking to their side of the gorge, saw Nima-Tashi's broad face wearing a scared look.

'Hark, my friend! The ghosts of this hell are walking.'

Instantly Claverdon sat up and listened. As he did so, echoing between the high walls of the nullah, and clearly heard through the swirl of the stream, there reached his ears the sound of horses' hoofs moving on stony ground.

'They are ghosts that ride,' he whispered back to the Tibetan, 'and their beasts are shod with iron. Wherefore they are real―'

'But they are all around, down there, and up above,' protested Nima. 'There must be a caravan.'

Claverdon listened again carefully. Some peculiar formation of the gorge-like place, as he guessed, multiplied the original sound exceedingly, and he decided that at the most there were three or four riders, the hoof falls of whose beasts the reverberating valley turned into the sounds of a host. 'It is the echo, Nima,' he explained. 'There are no more than three or four horses.'

'But which way come they?' asked the Tibetan, perplexedly staring up and down the narrow valley. The question was a natural one, for the sound seemed to come both ways at once, and Claverdon could not guess from which direction the original sound came, He shook his head, and sat there listening until, almost abruptly, probably owing to some turn in the nullah, the sound ceased.

'Who can it have been?' he asked himself wonderingly, thinking aloud.

'God knows!' said the Tibetan, not piously. 'I fear not the quick, but the waking dead who ride in shodden horses make the hair creep.'

'Oh, rot, Nima! Someone has gone up or down the valley, passing us on the way, and I would give an eye tooth to know who.'

'And I would give two to be out of this hell-like place. Never have I heard ghosts that rode before.'

They settled down again. The moonlight passed, leaving the camp in gloom, and later spending some time speculating as to the identity of the riders who had passed the camp, Claverdon drifted into sleep again, and at dawn was wakened by his companion.

'Behold, my friend, the ghosts that clattered by in the dark have left a token. And the one who left it was surely a woman.'

Chapter 9

CLAVERDON RAISED himself abruptly, his eyes fixed on the 'token' which the Tibetan held out for his inspection. It was a small curved knife, with a jewelled haft butted with silver, the kind of thing a woman might carry, but certainly no weapon for a man.

'A woman's toy, my friend, for no man's hand could grasp the haft to give the killing-stroke. It is too small. Therefore, it is a woman's knife— but what woman rode with the ghosts through the moonlight in the night?'

Claverdon, staring at the dainty weapon, was already asking himself that question. He stretched a hand for the knife and examined it carefully for any indication of its owner that it might offer, but found none.

Yet that Nima-Tashi was right, he had no doubt. There were small handed men among the Rajputs; but none that he had ever seen with hand so small that, grasping for serious work, it would fit his dainty haft. A young boy's hand might; a girl's certainly; but no man's hand; and as he considered the weapon ha had no doubt that of those who had ridden up the nullah in the night one at least had been a woman. Who?

Narani? That was possible; for that she was somewhere in the hills was certain; and that like himself she was miking for Ringing Sands was probable. But there was that English girl— Helen Wargrave. for whom Waldron was searching. Had she indeed been carried by in the night― But she, a prisoner, would not have been permitted to have a weapon, and it was scarcely likely in any case that at the moment of her capture she was carrying a knife like this; for notwithstanding its smallness it was not a toy, but in a capable hand, a very dangerous weapon.

Some other woman? That was possible, but he did not think it likely; and whilst he still reflected, Nima-Tashi broke in on his thoughts.

'It is a knife that Narani might carry, if it were in her mind to cut a man's throat.'

'That any woman might carry―' began Claverdon.

'Aye, but how many women in the hills carry a toy like that? Those are stones of price. They would buy a rifle many times— and to a hill-man a rifle is worth more than a mere woman's life. That is no toy of a Hunza maid.

'It belongs to the Zenanas, or to a woman who knows the bazaars of the South; therefore, I say that Narani may have ridden with the ghosts up this gut of hell last night.'

The Tibetan's conviction squared with Claverdon's own thought. Ringing Sands was no woman's business, but Narani he knew to be involved in it; and as he reflected that in all probability she was less than a march ahead, he was conscious of an odd excitement. What her relation with Rahman Ali or to Ivan Melnikoff might be he could only guess; but in that moment he recalled her concern for him on the house-boat at Srinagar, and was aware of a quickening of his heart-beats at the remembrance. Then he became aware of Nima-Tashi's eyes regarding him curiously, and made haste to answer.

'You may be right there, Nina. But a few hours, or at most a day or two. will prove that... I think we must push the pace to-day, and try to overtake those ghosts of yours.'

The Tibetan laughed— the rumbling laughter that was characteristic of him when he was really amused.

'Aye, we will push the pace, but with the sun shining we shall find no ghosts. They are creatures of the night, not of the day.'

After a meagre breakfast they hurried on. The nullah deepened; the rocks grew infinitely troublesome, the path narrowed, perching itself in dizzy places beyond belief. There was a place where the valley narrowed so abruptly that they were forced to march up the bed of the stream, and nowhere was there any sign of life save the eagles soaring above the crags.

As they marched, ahead there came a sudden noise that might have been that of distant thunder; but the cause of which they discovered a whole hour later, when they leached, a point where a great mass of debris shot from the cliffs above not only blocked the path, but the river also, damming the water in such fashion that only with the utmost difficulty could they find a way to the farther side of the block and take up the track beyond, which twisted its way through a mighty mass of fallen rock.

For two days they journeyed up the long narrow valley, following a path which now was by the edge of the rushing stream, and now climbing dizzily along a cliff-face, but on the third day a mile away they saw before them a place where the water plunged over a stone shelf, and beyond the fall descried a solitary house. It stood high in a place most desolate: and the grim heights above it dwarfed it so that in appearance it was no bigger, than a bird-cage.

'The Gateway to The Gate,' said Nima-Tashi. 'Said not that goatherd that the way lay through a house?'

Claverdon had no doubt at all that the Tibetan was right. There, through that stone house, solitary among the desolate rocks, lay the way he followed, and the place, as he guessed, would he like a needle's eye. He halted to contemplate it. Once beyond that house, the way to Ringing Sands would be clear; but could he pass the scrutiny that watched that narrow way? One man within the house, but a score hidden in the rocks beyond, each with a rifle, and with the gong at the doorway to give the word for execution. It was, he knew, a perilous way to tread, but he had set his feet to it and would not turn back.

'A marksman up there could pick off any who came this way,' remarked Nima-Tashi. 'We are like flies on a wall, waiting for the hand, to crush us.'

'But the hand will not move until the gong has struck. And if we are discovered―'

'Then we smite the striking hand. It is as simple as a knife-stroke.'

Claverdon nodded; and then, taking it from its hiding-place, fastened the jade symbol of The Gate in his hat.

'The mere sight of this talisman may serve. If it does not then we shall try the knife-stroke.'

They resumed their way. The valley wound between the hills amazingly. They lost sight of the solitary house, and on the edge of dusk were, Claverdon calculated, farther away from the house as the crow flies than they had been in the afternoon.

A fire was made and they camped for the night, wondering what the morrow would bring forth. But the night itself brought its surprise, for whilst they were sitting smoking, preparatory to retiring, there reached them the sound of hoofs echoing between the stone walls.

'The ghosts of this hell walk again,' remarked Nima-Tashi.

'So it seems.'

'Maybe that woman comes to look for her knife.'

'That is not likely,' said Claverdon; and then sat dumb with a listening look upon his face.

For half an hour or more he maintained his listening attitude, then he moved sharply, and Nima-Tashi glancing at him saw the firelight gleaming on the pistol in his hand. Together they heard the stumbling of a yet invisible horse on loose stones, then a golden voice broke on the stillness bidding the horse to hold up. Both recognised the voice instantly.

'The woman!' whispered Nima chucklingly. 'Said I not she come for her knife?'

Claverdon made no reply, but as he rose to his feet his heart was beating wildly. Questions raced through his mind on the heels of each other. Why was Narani returning? Had she met Ivan Melnikoff, who had shown such interest in her in the Wazir's house at Baltit? Was Rahman Ali with her or did she ride alone?

The questions, all unanswered were brimming in his mind, when round a shoulder of cliff, out of the darkness, came a solitary rider, moving straight towards the fire. A single glance told him that the rider was Narani, and the next second the Tibetan's whisper reached him.

'Alone, my friend! Where is that wild eagle. Rahman Ali?'

Claverdon had no time even to guess the answer. A second later the rider pulled up the weary pony, and as the English advanced to meet her, she slid from the saddle, and faced him quietly. That she knew of or had penetrated his disguise he had absolutely no doubt, and he made no attempt to mislead her.

'This, Madame,' he said, speaking in English, 'is an unexpected pleasure.'

'I do not find it so,' she replied quickly. 'I have come to warn you. This is a road of peril. At the end―'

'There is The Gate!' interrupted Claverdon.

'Of death!' she countered. Then her voice grew hurried and a little tremulous. 'You must believe me! You are a brave man, I know, but the danger is really very great. There is no hope that you can pass this way. Your coming is known or guessed at―'

'By Ivan Melnikoff or Rahman Ali?' interjected Claverdon sharply.

'What know you of Ivan Melnikoff?' she asked wonderingly.

'That he is a traitor— I was at Ufa when he changed sides— also that he is behind this affair at Ringing Sands; and that he is no friend of yours nor yet of Rahman Ali,  of whom he makes use for his own purposes.'

'How do you know all that?' she asked quickly.

'I heard Menlikoff himself say as much, down at Baltit. He was talking faithfully with a Wazir, who in addition to a mountain khanship is to have you for his reward.'

The woman drew herself up, and a flash came in her eyes. 'Do I look like one who Is given to reward a traitor?'

'No!' replied Claverdon, with conviction. 'But you may have no choice.'

'Rahman Ali is to be reckoned with,' replied Narani quickly. 'He is no weakling, and he has his own ideas as to the disposal of myself. As for the matter of that so have I.'

A bleak, mirthless laugh accompanied the words, and it moved Nima-Tashi to speak.

'That eagle would have thee for mate, hey, Narani? Well, thou couldst make him a king, woman―'

'My God!' cried Claverdon sharply. 'You are not thinking of that? You―'

'Why not?' came the question quickly, accomplished by an odd flash of the slumbrous eyes.

'Because  you are white, and Rahman Ali, for all his veneer, is just a hill-man of barbaric instincts. You— you might make him a king, as Nima says, but he would be king for a day and no more; and after that it would be oblivion for you as well as him. And suppose it was not for a day, but for all the years of life? What would your position be? A Moslem hill khan's wife―'

'Rahman All's dreams go a little beyond that―' she began, but was quickly interrupted by Claverdon.

'Maybe! Some men look at their future with eyes that magnify unduly; and hypnotised by the vision neglect essential facts― in this case, as I gather, Ivan Melnikoff is one of. those facts. He is behind whatever is at the back of Ringing Sands. Rahman Ali is a mere tool — a blade to strike with and to be thrown away.'

'But what if there is one behind even Ivan Menlikoff, who uses―'

'You?' he whispered, remembering the suspicions he had entertained. Then as he recalled the Cossack's warning to the Wazir at Baltit he laughed at himself.

'Why not?' she asked, watching him closely.

'Because Ivan Melnikoff holds you an enemy of the movement that has its centre at Ringing Sands. I heard him warn a man at Baltit.'

Narani laughed mockingly. 'You think I could not make him a friend— persuade him to believe as I wished him to believe?'

Her dark eyes glowed, as it seemed, with passion, the beautiful face, lit by the firelight, became utterly alluring, her lips, curved in an enigmatic smile, held a silent promise of infinite delights; and as Claverdon watched her he was more moved than he was inclined to own. He laughed brusquely to hide his emotion.

'By high heaven, madam, I think you could persuade a man anything!'

'I could persuade Ivan Menlikoff! Yes. When a man has long desired the love of a woman who has mocked him and fled from him, it is an easy thing to persuade him to faith. The woman has but to seek him of her own will, deliberately, with the pretence of love, and the man will believe anything— though unknown to him she is Delilah!'

'But―'

Narani waved a hand at the interruption and went on. 'And the greater his passion and trust— the more calamitous his ruin if the woman played her part to the end. Is it not so, Mr. Claverdon? Samson with his blind eyes points mildly the moral of what may be written in flame.'

She laughed suddenly— hard laughter which rang between the rocky walls like the ring of steel on stone— then she added: 'You are right. To Ivan Melnikoff, Rahman Ali is a tool whom he would use to his own ends; but what if another hand take the tool and turn it against him— a hand that can sway Rahman Ali as the wind does the mountain grass?'

Claverdon remembered how he had seen Rahman Ali standing by her divan in the room at Delhi, and he answered as he felt.

'If the hand were yours, I should be sorry for Ivan Melnikoff.'

Narani laughed the chill hard laugh again. 'Long ago in your land there was one who was called "The Kingmaker." To-day and here in these mad hills I am that. I can make Ivan Melnikoff's dreams come true; or I can set Rahman Ali upon the throne of the North with Ivan Melnikoff's help―'

She broke off, then laughed once more. 'You know something of Ringing ? Sands, Mr. Claverdon; you have, I believe, guessed more; and I think that given time and good fortune you might discover all.... But the time is not yours. You do not know how far things have progressed, and by the time you have the knowledge it will be too late to be of use. The Imam will have manifested himself; and his green standard will be lifted everywhere along the Border, and Ivan Melnikoff will have his way; or Rahman Ali will have a throne, or―'

Claverdon watched her. There was something in her face that he could not understand, a wavering doubtful look in the dark eyes which puzzled him.

'Or?' he prompted at last.

'Or both will have gone into oblivion— one tool of mine broken upon the other.' She laughed again. 'That is a woman's trick— hey, Nima-Tashi?― to set one man against another and throw both to hell.'

'A woman's trick!' agreed Nima laughing with her. 'But Paradise is for the third man, hey?'

'The third man!'

For a second as she echoed the words the woman's beautiful face expressed surprise, then, something beyond surprise showed there, something that nuzzled Claverdon and that quite baffled comprehension. Then Narani laughed enigmatically.

'You are a shrewd man, Nima-Tashi. The third man, say you? What is there to be promised that will move him to save his head for me?'

'Nay, how should I know, woman?' chuckled Nima-Tashi; then with a sidelong glance at Claverdon continued:— 'It is well to go to the spring for fresh water, and ever safest to draw for oneself. I have heard one who was a Christian priest say that in his Scriptures there was a word:— "Ask and ye shall receive." Maybe that third man will give his head, not swinging by the hair in a border thief's dirty hand, but whole upon his shoulders.'

The woman laughed a little harshly. 'I am no suppliant, O man of the hills! And these are idle words. I must go back, as the moon rises.'

She swung round to Claverdon, who had been watching her and the Tibetan with puzzled eyes.

'You will not heed my warning. You will not go back?'

'I cannot,' replied Claverdon. Duty―'

'Oh!' ejaculated Narani half scorn-fully. Claverdon laughed. 'Well, if you will have the truth, I would not go back for worlds.'

'Then, stubborn one, I shall see your head stuck on a pole by The Gate―'

'Or in Paradise!' said Nima, the laughter welling up. The woman made no reply. She did not even give them good-night. Abruptly she swung round and turned her pony's head up the wild track, and a moment later the two men stood listening to its iron-shod hoofs clattering away among the stones.

When the sound had quite died away, Claverdon looked at his friend.

'She came to warn us, Nima— for nothing else! Shall we return?'

The Tibetan grinned. 'It was not my head that Narani prophesied she would see stuck on a pole....' He laughed. 'I can turn Moslem with the best; and with Narani behind the new prophet— 'twould be easy to shout, 'Allaha Akbar!'

'Then we go forward in the morning.'

'Aye. That house of the gong, through which the road lines, holds my mind like a fair woman. I would not turn aside for a yak's burden of silver. In the morning we go that gut that leads to The Gate, and may the God of Luck be kind.'

THE WIND WAS moaning down the narrow valley, and the hills were white with a new powdering of snow as they took their way in the morning. The crazy path swung dizzily uphill, climbing towards the solitary house which now showed like a black patch against the new-fallen snow. They came to a wooden bridge stretched across the narrowest part of the nullah, and crossed it with the snow driving in their faces from the height above.

Now the path crawled along the face of the hill upward towards the saddle of the hills where the house was situated, and unexpectedly they found themselves upon a comparatively level path, strewn with stones half covered in snow, at the farther side of which stood the house of the gong.

For a full minute, whilst they breathed themselves, the two stared at the place intently. It was planted between the two tall cliffs of conglomerate rock that at some remote time had been one, but had been rent apart by some terrific convulsion, and were now connected anew by the beams and stones of this solitary house. Above it, on either hand, the towering cliffs dwarfed it till it seemed a squat and ugly place, and as Claverdon considered it a line or two of Browning leaped to his mind:—

'The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart

Built of brown stone without a counterpart

In the whole world.'

It was not round, but it was squat, and save for a door which, despite the bitter wind blowing across the flat, stood ajar, it was blind, without a wisp of any kind in its face; but with a wisp of smoke rising from the skylight to be whisked away at once.

'Behold the gong of death,' said Nima a little grimly.

Claverdon had already seen it. It hung from an iron staple driven into the woodwork of the doorway; swinging to and fro in the wind; and knowing its use, he shuddered a little. Then he looked about for the single guard in the house, and for the watchers without, of whom the goatherd sentinel had spoken. He saw none. The outside watchers, he thought, might have been driven to the house for shelter from the snow, in which case, as he guessed, his difficulties might be increased sevenfold and the peril a hundredfold. But it was no use debating matters that were beyond his disposition.

That their coming was known was sure, and that their climb up to the flat had been observed by watchful eyes was a certainty. Forward or backward— now there was little choice, since both ways doubtless held the menace of death! As a gust of snow swept down on them from the heights, he spoke abruptly to the Tibetan: —

'We will go forward, Nima!'

'Aye! Better face the death of the gong than perish in this freezing blast.'

They moved forward, and, reaching the door, halted almost directly under the shadow of the gong. The door stood a third of the way open, giving them a glimpse of a floor of natural rock and of nothing more. From within came no sound. Claverdon hesitated  a second, then smote the door with his loaded whipstock. There was no sort of response, and after waiting a full minute he smote again. Still the summons went unheeded and Nima-Tashi whispered impatiently:—

'What is a gong for but to be beaten? The deaf fool within will hear if we smite.'

As he spoke he flung up own whipstock over his shoulder to strike the gong, and in that same instant Claverdon had an inspiration of the truth. Those who came to this house on their way to Ringing Sands knew the secret and left that tempting gong untouched; those who did not know it struck the gong and gave the signal for their own death. He caught the Tibetan's whip-stock as it descended, and in some heat whispered—

'Would you have us die, fool?' Not understanding what was in his mind, Nima-Tashi stared at him a little abashed until Claverdon explained.

'Remember the goatherd said that when the gong was struck those who passed through died. There is no sense in asking for trouble by striking the gong. Also, there is a better way. Come!'

As he spoke he put out a hand and thrust the door open. It revealed a track between stone walls, which ran through to a snow-covered path at the farther side, and as he. marked, on the way to the farther outlet, there were two doorways, where a man or where men might lie in ambuscade. He noted them, and dragging his pony by the bridle, moved forward towards the first doorway.

Just before be reached it, a man emerged suddenly— a big, fierce-eyed man, with beard spread fanwise over an ample chest, whose eyes gleamed with suspicion, whilst his right hand played with a drumstick.

'Who are ye that make so free with a man's house?' he asked sharply.

'We are pilgrims who go to The Gate,' answered Claverdon simply.

'To what Gate?'

'The Gate of Ringing Sands!'

'Aye, but what hope you to find there?'

There was a point in the question. That much the watchful expectant light in the man's eyes told Claverdon, who guessed that there was an answering password— a word that he had not got. He knew that crucial moment had arrived, that his answer, save by some stupendous luck, must necessarily be wrong; but none the less, without betraying his fears by even the flicker of an eyelid, he gave an answer that he hoped might serve.

'The Hope of Islam— and the Sword!'

The other's fierce eyes were swiftly veiled; and when next the eyelids lifted they revealed nothing, but Claverdon guessed that his answer had gone wide of the mark and prepared for eventualities. The guard glanced from him to Nima-Tashi.

'Thou also followest the Hope and the Sword?'

'Aye!' answered the Tibetan heartily. 'And may Allah curse all infidels.'

'He surely will,' answered the man fiercely, and stepped aside leaving the way open.

Claverdon could scarce believe his eyes, and for a moment did not move. With a laugh, Nima-Tashi smote the nearest pony with his heavy hand, urging it forward. The other ponies followed like sheep, and Claverdon flattened himself against the wall. The last one passed turn, and he himself turned to follow; but before a step was taken glanced back over his shoulder. The man with the drumstick was already moving towards the doorway by which they had entered— the doorway of the gong. He divined the fellow's purpose instantly. He meant to strike the gong and give the death-signal.

Turning swiftly, Claverdon began to move towards him. The man, glancing back in the same moment, saw him coming, and, laughing cruelly, waved his drumstick, the fellow was little more than a yard from the door, and he would reach it before Claverdon could lay a hand on him. That the Englishman recognised, almost despairingly, and drew his pistol. To shoot was a desperate expedient―

'No!' commanded a peremptory voice is he lifted the pistol. 'Stoop!'

He stooped instantly. Some gleaming thing travelled past him, with the swiftness of light, burying itself in the guard's back. The drumstick flew from the fellow's hand as he spasmodically jerked both arms above his head; then his knees sagged, and without a cry he fell in a crumpled heap just inside the doorway— a man from whom life, as it seemed, had ebbed in a lightning tide.

'Quick!' cried the voice that he had heard before, and which he had already recognised for Narani's. 'Quick! After the ponies, whilst the snow lasts. I will do what must be done.'

And, again obedient, Claverdon followed Nima-Tashi to the farther exit, leaving the dead guard of the gong where he had fallen.

Chapter 10

AS HE REACHED the Tibetan the latter chuckled triumphantly. 'As simple as eating tsamba— or fooling a woman.'

'And as grim as death! Press on while the snow lasts.'

'So? There was trouble?'

'The guard would have struck the gong. Narani―'

'She was there?' cried Nima. 'In one of those doorways! She or one who was with her slew the guard with a flying knife. 'A queen among women!' laughed Nima. 'But for her we had been lying dead in the snow by this.'

'Unquestionably! Do you see any of the guards the goatherd spoke of?'

'No. But one could not see Nanga Parbat in this mirk, let alone a crouching marksman.'

'A good thing! We ourselves shall not be seen clearly. Press forward!'

The path was narrow— a mere mule track. The cliffs on either side rose almost sheer, and at the bottom of them was much fallen rock, only half discernible through the snow mirk. Claverdon strained his eyes at the littering boulders, and as they passed them was a little breathless, for he guessed that there the other guards, who waited for the death signal of the gong, were concealed. He saw nothing of the men, however, and as they marched on, leaving the rocks behind them, he breathed more easily, and his mind busied itself with the tragic event which had occurred in that strange house.

What was Narani doing there? Was she there alone? Knowing the difficulty with which he must inevitably be confronted, and the peril that would be about him whilst he stood in the shadow of the gong, bad she wailed to deliver him? It was barely possible: no! probable; and that she had saved Nima and himself was certain. Once that unhappy guard had struck the gong there could have been no possible escape for either of them. And she had known— had waited! His heart warmed at the thought. She―

B-o-o-m!

The sonorous note of the gong came , down the wind, and as he heard it a sudden chilling of the blood turned his back to goose flesh, - and he stared at Nima-Tashi with startled eyes.

'You heard?'

'Aye! Some fool sounds his own death gong.'

'But who? Who―'

His voice choked with fierce emotion, so that he could not finish the question. His thoughts went to Narani in that house with the slain guard, and he was filled with sharp, almost unendurable apprehension for her. Who had sounded the gong— if not she? and why had she done so, knowing as she did the inevitable penalty? He did not understand. He could make neither head nor tail of the business; but of one thing he was sure, and that was that he could not leave her to face the danger alone. He called to Nima-Tashi.

'Drive the beasts forward! Do not wait. There is trouble for Narani, and―'

The faint bang of a rifle broke on his words, followed swiftly by a ragged fusillade.

'My God!' he whispered hoarsely, and turned to run against the wind and in the direction of that house set astride the mountain track. He had gone less than half a dozen yards when in the wind-driven snow he almost collided with someone coming the other way.

A single exclamatory Russian word told him who it was before he saw her face.

'You!' he cried in joyful relief.

'Yes. Quick. Forward, Mr. Claverdon. There is danger on the backward way.'

She caught his arm, and with the wind behind to help urged him into a run. The path was not made for racing, the stones half hidden in the snow impeded their going; there were moments when one saved the other from a downright crash; but stumblingly, blindly, they ran forward, till through the mirk ahead Claverdon described the rump of the rearward pony. At the same moment  came again the faint crash of rifles, with on the heels of it a sound of ferocious yells.

'On!' cried Narani. 'Do not delay.'

Claverdon shouted to Nima-Tashi, and himself smote the nearest pony unmercifully. The poor beast half-reared and then plunged forward. The ponies in front also quickened, and the whole of the little cavalcade fairly raced into a narrow way between high cliffs, where there was room only for one pony to pass at a time. Then came a sharp halt, the rearmost pony backing and plunging from its fellow in front of it.

Claverdon heard Nima-Tashi swearing ferociously in Tibetan, and guessed that the leading pony had jammed in the narrow cleft, and for the moment blocked the way. Narani looked apprehensively on the. backward track. That she feared pursuit was evident, and Claverdon, almost desperate at the thought of being caught in that strait gut, climbed over the backs of the ponies until he reached the one that was held fast. He saw the difficulty in a moment. The yak-dans, carried pannier-wise, had jammed against the sides of the cleft, holding the poor beast firmly wedged. Standing precariously upon the animal's back, he struck and heaved in desperate endeavour to free the creature, but in vain.

Then under his weight the poor beast slid to its knees, and so solved the problem accidentally, for the chained yak-dans, no longer wedged by the pony's body, fell inward towards each other, and the pony was free. In a moment Claverdon lifted the leather boxes clear. Nima-Tashi heaved the beast to its feet, and dragged it forward, whilst Claverdon carrying the yak-dans staggered after it with the second pony snuffing at his back.

The path widened. It became possible to readjust the pony's load, and that done they marched again, Claverdon dropping back to the woman who had taken up the task of driving the rear ponies. For a moment the pair stood to listen. No sound came to them from behind, and a light of relief shone in Narani's wonderful eyes.

'They do not follow!' she said.

'What happened back there?' be asked as he waved her to precede him. 'That man— he was not killed outright, as he seemed. Those hill-men have marvellous vitality. When you were gone, and whilst I and the one who was with me were preparing to leave, the man crawled to the door and lifted himself up— I saw him in the very act of striking the gong, as did the man who was with me. who ran towards him, whilst I fled the other way.'

'The man who was with you?' asked Claverdon swiftly. 'Was it Rahman Ali?' 'No! He is ahead, with a crazy priest who awaited us here. The man who was with me was his servant.'

'He died?'

'Surely. You heard the gong— the rifles, perhaps? Yes! Those sounds meant but one thing. The man who issued from that house-path after the ringing of the gong died. The men of the hills know how to shoot.'

'None better,' he agreed.

'So the servant is dead, whilst the master goes to impersonate the prophet who will reward the servant's faithfulness. But you were going on the backward way, when I met you. Why?'

'To look for you,' he answered swiftly. 'I knew when the gong sounded that there must be trouble— that peril was very near.'

'You were coming'— she caught her breath as it seemed to him— ''hurrying to help me?'

'Yes, I could do no other.'

An odd look came on the beautiful face; a glow in the strange eyes.

'I am glad to know that,' she said with a kind of breathless fervour. 'It restores my self-respect that a man should be willing to die to help me.'

'There are many men who would do that,' he answered quickly, 'and who would count death a privilege if so accomplished. And I'— he laughed sharply— 'am of that persuasion!'

'But you shall not die for me,' she replied swiftly, 'though, you are on a road of peril. I will not have it. We shall work together―'

'To defeat Rahman Ali?'

'Rahman Ali is the least enemy we have to meet. With me he is a means to an end.'

'And that end?'

'I think I shall not tell you— yet! But for me he is an instrument of vengeance.'

Claverdon looked at her wonderingly.

'You have a quarrel with the Raj―'

'Oh, no!' she interrupted with a laugh that rang like steel. 'I am not the enemy of the Raj. I―'

'But you have helped to foster this plot. Rahman Ali is your friend―'

'My tool!' she corrected.

'And the tool of Ivan Melnikoff. You must not forget that. By this hocus-pocus at Singing Sands that Cossack means to set all the Border aflame―'

'And what matter if all the world burn? I shall have my vengeance in the end, as did Samson when he pulled down the pillars of Gaza.'

'But if you should be overwhelmed?' he protested.

'I shall die happy in the thought of a virtuous deed accomplished.' Her beautiful face had a hard look, her dark eyes were glowing fiercely; her mouth spoke, harsh determination.' Then she laughed a little hardly. 'Back there, near that strange house, a man died. I let him die, though I might have saved him. He had done no wrong according to his lights; he was in some ways a very brave man who gave his life for me. Yet I let him die when if I had fronted those who slew him he might have lived, for they knew me. Do you know why I let the poor wretch die? ... It was to save you and not myself... He was Rahman Ali's man. He would have told his master that by my help you had passed the barrier to The Gate; and Ivan Melnikoff would have heard. Together they would have smelled you but, and―'

She stopped suddenly, her strange dark eyes fixed upon him with a glowing look. 'Why do I this?' she demanded suddenly. 'Why do I this when I have my own deep purpose to serve?'

'I do not know,' he answered sincerely. But I am very grateful!'

'Grateful!' She laughed in an odd, discordant way as she echoed the word, and then abruptly ending the conversation plunged on ahead and joined Nima-Tashi.

Claverdon watched her wonderingly.

What was behind all that he had heard, he had but the dimmest notion. That Ivan Melnikoff was the object of the vengeance she had spoken of seemed clear, and that she proposed to reach him through Rahman Ali was certain; but the occasion of it all did not appear, nor was it to be predicted what Rahman Ali himself would do. Passionate, masterful as he was, and ambitious as Lucifer, he was no subject for sure prophecy, nor was he likely for long to be the tool of anyone— unless it was an intriguing, ambitious woman.

But whoever was really behind this mad business of the Imam Medi, whether Narani or Melnikoff, with Rahman Ali in the saddle it was a wild steed to let loose. If the Faithful of the Hills kindled to that centuries-old idea of the deliverer of Islam, then— a tide of living flame— they might roll down the , passes, kindle their brethren in the Plains, and Rahman Ali, a tool no more, but a master spirit, might make Narani a queen in Delhi. There was nothing fantastic in the notion; Asia had seen stranger things, and so glittering a place might dazzle any woman's eyes!

As he stalked behind the ponies, with Narani's lissom figure swaying ahead, these thoughts crowded upon him, making him oblivious of all things else until, long after, with a start, he realised that they were through the long rift in the rocks, and moving downhill towards an opening valley, where under a wooded slope a cluster of stone houses and a small fort made a village.

He stared at the place, wondering whether they would make it or pass it by. The path, as he noticed, seemed to leave the village on the fight, following the slope of the valley, and it was possible that they might pass it altogether. They reached the trees, and the valley for a time was hidden, but presently the village came in sight again, much nearer, a poor place with cultivated fields, set at the bottom of a cup in the hills. It began to grow dusk, and as they struck a stretch of loose sharp shale, the darkness descended upon them precipitately, and out of the night to the right of them came occasional glimpses of fire through open doors, and a pleasant smell of burning wood.

'We will rest here to-night,' said Narani, returning to him. 'The slope beyond is too much to attempt in the dark, and I am known here.'

That her last words were no idle boast was proved abundantly an hour later, for after an interview with the head of the village a small stone hut was put at the disposal of Claverdon and the Tibetan, and food was offered, goat's flesh and barley meal.

Narani had gone elsewhere, and the pair were at liberty to talk; but indulged themselves little; for both were unutterably weary, and in the warmth of the hut after the cold of the high hills soon drifted into sleep. How Ions he slept Claverdon did not know, but he awoke with the creaking of the door hinges in his ears, and growing instantly alert reached for his pistol. The moon had risen, and against the brightness without he saw silhouetted the figures of two men, one of whom addressed the other in tones that brought reassurance to Claverdon himself.

'In the name of Allah the compassionate, the merciful, rest, my brother.'

The man so addressed spoke a single word of thanks and stumbled forward in the darkness, groping for the raised shelf which ran round three sides of the hut. The individual by the door moved a little to admit the moonlight, and Claverdon glimpsed for one moment the newcomer's face— gaunt and ravaged, with eyes that were extraordinarily bright in the silvery light. Whilst he watched, the man found the shelf, stretched himself upon it; and then the door closed, leaving the room in utter darkness, save for a very faint glow, which came from the smouldering ashes on the sunken hearth in the middle of the floor.

Who was the stranger who had arrived at this unseemly hour to be given lodgings with himself and the Tibetan? The thought of some deep treachery leaped to his mind and stayed; and lying there in the darkness, he waited with ears alert for any movement that might indicate hostile action on the part of the stranger. They heard none. The valley was extraordinarily still, and save for the heavy breathing of Nima-Tashi, the hut might have been a place of the dead.

From the shelf across the room where the stranger had lain himself down there came absolutely no sound— it seemed that the stranger did not even breathe. So for a time, then quite suddenly there came a whispering moan and a single Russian word. Unutterably startled, Claverdon lay quite still, his mind reiterating the question that it had previously asked. Who was this man— treated with such kindness by the hill-man— this man who in his anguish whispered Russian?

He found no answer, and a little while after heard other words— a whispered babble in half the tongues of Asia, difficult to follow, and meaningless in his ears. The stream of words stopped abruptly, and after an interval of a few seconds there followed a sighing groan.

An explanation occurred to Claverdon. The man was ill— delirious, nothing else, he was sure, could account for that unmeaning polyglot babble. Silently he threw off the blanket, and rising felt for his tin box of matches. Striking one, he lit the native lamp which stood on a shelf, and as the crude wick burned up, by its miserable light he looked down on the stranger.

The man was extraordinarily emaciated, his bronzed skin tight on the cheek-bones, his eyes deep in the sockets, and bright with the brightness of fever, the nose thin and sharp, the temples hollow, with the bones pronounced about them. Straggling, unkempt hair hung from head and face, and under the hair the jaw-bone outlined itself in a ridge. The stranger lay there, apparently oblivious of his scrutiny, his eyes staring fixedly at the blackened rafters; and looking on him.

Claverdon decided that the man's mind was gone; perhaps through the endurance of extraordinary privations, or of hunger; to both of which possibilities his appearance seemed to point. There was nothing in the man's dress to indicate his nationality; nor anything in the lean, ravaged face, weather-beaten to the colour of old bronze. The man might be a hill-man, an outcast from his tribe, a wandering mullah, mad with fanaticism, anything— but remembering the Russian word the man had spoken, Claverdon addressed him in that tongue.

'You are sick, comrade?'

At the words the man started, and apparently for the first time became aware of him. The wild expression passed from his face, and a look of intelligence came in the over-bright eyes. Then he spoke in a cultured voice: — 'No! I am quite well, thank you, comrade.'

'Possibly you are hungry. If so there is food that you may share!'

'Food!' The man laughed wildly. 'A man's life only can stay my hunger! And I shall eat yet! I shall eat and be satisfied.'

Having so spoken he turned his face to the wall, ignoring his questioner completely. Claverdon looked down on him with pitying eyes. The man was quite mad, seemingly; and had a grievance real or imagined against some other man whose life he sought. That he was Russian and of superior class was certain and explained much. There were many wanderers of his nation in Asia since the Revolution; men whose all had gone in the maelstrom; or who were stragglers from the defeated armies that had striven to stay the Red tide. This unquestionably was one— a man with some obsession that— a wanderer on the face of the earth— he would follow until a hill-man's knife or some accident in the rocky hills put a term to his quest. Realising that he could do nothing for the poor fellow, he returned to his blankets, but not to sleep. The man presently began to babble again.

Nima-Tashi snored on, and Claverdon's mind busied itself, now with his own quest, now with some train of thought started by some chance word of the unfortunate man across the room. An hour must have so passed, when through the crazed man's babble a new sound caught his attention— the stamping of hoofs on the stony ground outside. He listened intently, and heard several voices speaking at once some little distance away, but the sound was not clear enough for him to follow what was said. Then came a sudden, sharp, feminine cry of distress, and through all other sounds his own name cried appealingly—

'Mr. Claverdon! Oh―'

The cry was checked, as by a hand thrust over the mouth of the speaker; and, his heart beating wildly, he flung aside the blanket, shouted to Nima-Tashi, and gripping his pistol rose to the door and flung it open. Out in the open, under the moonlight, he saw a little group of people, three or four horses, and a woman— Narani as he guessed— struggling in the hands of two men.

Recklessly he raced towards them and had almost reached the struggling woman when a big hill-man flung towards him, a heavy knife lifted. He saw the great blade gleam in the moonlight, and, without sighting, fired his pistol. The aggressor toppled over, the heavy knife being flung forward by his fall.

Claverdon jumped aside to avoid it, stumbled on a stone, and was pitched headlong. Before he could pick himself up he was absolutely overwhelmed by three or four unwashed hill-men, who flung themselves upon him, spread-eagling him upon the ground. Then sounded a harsh voice bidding other men tie him up; and as the order was obeyed, and his captors fell back, he saw the man who directed them grinning down at him, with the moonlight full on his strangely marked face.

'Ivan Melnikoff!' he cried, the name jerked from him in sheer surprise.

'At your service, Captain Claverdon,' laughed the renegade Cossack, with a mocking bow. 'You seek The Gate of Ringing Sands. I understand? I shall have infinite pleasure to take you there.'

Chapter 11

CLAVERDON was too stunned by the sudden turn of things to make any reply. He lay on the ground staring at the shaded eye of the Cossack as if fascinated by it, and his captor continued: 'I thought that you might come this way— after the little contretemps at Baltit. Rahman Ali gave me the key to that when he told me how he had overheard you at Delhi and had encountered you at Srinagar. You have had the good fortune until now, but alas! the well has run dry― But I shall be kind. You shall see the desire of your heart and pass The Gate of Ringing Sands before you slip through the gate of hell to-night. I have the generosity that comes with great luck. I came to take another pretty bird, but I did not expect to take a cock eagle also. So!' He laughed callously, and turned to Narani.

'You limed the twig very neatly, dear lady. But for you I should not have taken this most chivalrous hero. I must consider how you may be most suitably rewarded.... There is my friend, Rahman Ali — a man of destiny, the chosen of Heaven, the vehicle of the coming revelation. He has a notion for a consort not bred in a stinking, stone hut. So great a man should be humoured!'

He laughed —a cold vicious laugh that cut like a knife, then he spoke again. 'Also there is a suitor across the hills who would make you a Thum's wife that you may pack his hubble-bubble and mother his brats in the smoke under the blackened rafters of his palace.'

He broke off and thrust his face towards Narani, who held by two of the tribesmen stood upright and unflinching under the cold moon.

'But I am forgetting. You are not common clay. In the old days your pride was flaunted like a banner— and still it blows in the wind... You, Narani— a pretty name you took for yourself, Olga!— you, Narani the much desired, are too rich a harvest for a barbarian's reaping. That privilege is for myself―'

'Oh, shame, Ivan Melnikoff!' cried Narani, moved out of her stony calm.

The man went on unheeding.

'But where I have reaped others may glean. Rahman Ali desires a wife―'

'He will kill yon when he knows,' broke in Narani. 'And the Wazir across the hills would have a mistress, and when Rahman Ali has fulfilled his destiny and the North is kindled to fighting ecstasy―' He checked himself and laughed again, coldly, sneeringly. 'Do you remember that night under the moon at your house in the Caucasus, when I rode through your grates, with a fair offer that I would save your brother, yourself, and your lands at a price?'

'I remember my answer,' replied Narani cuttingly. 'And my hand that gave it warms at the remembrance; so, I hope, does your face.'

'So!' The Cossack's voice ran? ferociously. 'You remember? And the price paid— what of that? Your brother dead―'

'Oh! not dead!' cried Narani.

'Dead!' laughed the other callously. 'And your home black with fire, your lands the spoil of vodka-drinking peasants, yourself— '

'Still myself!' flashed the woman with indomitable spirit.

'Yes. For the present. But in a little while when the barbarian, to whom I have promised you, tires— what then, my lady? When he sends yon to the market at Bokhara; or barters you to a Chinaman in Turkestan— will you be yourself? Rather a rag of femininity— a drab— a chattel... But we waste time— and the moonlight. There is a long road to travel before dawn. We and this fool of an Englishman and―'

He broke off sharply, and cried to the men standing by:

'But there was another who came— a big man from Tibet.'

'There was another,' agreed the man. 'He was in the hut with this one, Excellency.'

'Go! Bring him forth. He goes with us also.'

Several of the men hurried to fulfil his order, and lying bound on the earth, Claverdon followed them with his eyes. The door of the house stood open, as, he had left it when he tad run to Narani's help; and he saw the men rush in at each other's heels. A moment later there was a shout of surprise, and one of the. men came hurrying forth.

'Excellency,' he cried, 'the man is gone; also the other who came here in the night— a witless man, under the protection of Allah.'

'Gone!' Melnikoff fairly shouted the word as he began to run towards the house to investigate for himself. Claverdon, with a new hope stirring within him, watched him go; and as the man emerged, shouting frenzied commands, knew that his companion had indeed disappeared. On the Cossack's orders the villagers still in their, huts were awakened and driven forth' to search, whilst Melnikoff raged to and fro like a caged wolf, plainly much perturbed by the escape of Nima-Tashi.

Lying on the ground, Claverdon listened to the shouts of the searchers, as they beat the neighbourhood of the village, the rocks in the vicinity, the woods through which the path, came down from the hills.

An hour passed without any discovery of the fugitives, and his hope mounted. Desperate as his own situation was, with the Tibetan at large all was not lost; for Nima, as he knew, was a resourceful man who would spare no. endeavour to free him on the first chance that offered, and who would take risks to force a chance.

At the end of the hour the searchers empty-handed began to drift back. Melnikoff raved at them, and they stood there, dumb under his ratings, but with lowering brows, and to Claverdon watching it was dear that, rough tribesmen as they were, they yet stood in fear of the Cossack.

When all the searchers had returned, without any of them having

sighted the fugitives, Melnikoff gave orders to renew the search at dawn; commanding that either Nima-Tashi himself or his head was to be delivered at some rendezvous that he named; then he began to prepare for departure.

Narani was lifted to a pony and tied in the saddle, whilst Claverdon's legs were freed, a noosed rope slipped over him neck and fastened to the Cossack's own pony, being arranged in such a way that if the captive failed to keep pace with the animal he stood in exceeding danger of being strangled. Then with a last stern order to the head-man of the village, Melnikoff gave the order to start; and as he did so, lashed his prisoner with the whip that he carried, laughing ferociously.

The party moved off, a big hill-man leading Narani's pony, the Cossack's pony at its head, with Claverdon a yard or so behind; and with two other armed hill-men for rearguard, one of whom from time to time prodded the prisoner with the muzzle of his rifle. The way they took was a stony track leading across the valley in the direction of the farther hills, the snow-covered peaks of which glistened under the moon— an open, way, which, as Claverdon rejoiced to think, would make it possible for anyone on the look-out, to mark the direction they had taken.

Three-quarters of an hour or so brought them to the foot of the hills at a place where down a deep nullah a shallow stream ran into the valley. Into this they turned, marching up the bed of the stream. The water coming from the frozen hills was icy cold, and in a very little time Claverdon's feet and legs were numbed. The bed of the stream was stony, and difficult to walk in, and more than once he stumbled, and before he recovered his feet was half-strangled by the noosed rope. Melnikoff laughed at his plight, and once, the pony being forced to halt, lashed him brutally with his whip, bidding him keep up, if he did not wish to be killed out of hand. The stumbles resulted in his being almost drenched to the skin, and a cold air coming down the nullah made him shiver violently; but when they left the riverbed for an ill-defined path which began to ascend the hill the exertion of the climb warmed his blood anew; and Boon the circulation was restored to his feet and legs. As he recovered from the numbness, his mind grew active.

His situation, he reflected, was a sufficiently desperate one. The Cossack was not merely ruthless but cruel also. There was no depths to his brutality to which he might stoop, and no scruples would be allowed to stand in the way of the fulfilment of the threats he had made, both in regard to himself and to Narani. His own one apparent, hope was in Nima-Tashi. If the Tibetan were able to follow him, then, before the crisis was reached, there might be a chance of deliverance. If not— Kismet!

He shrugged his shoulders, and knowing the impossibility of any immediate deliverance, refused to consider the matter further; and as he caught sight of Narani, a figure swaying ahead in the moonlight, began to think over the words which Melnikoff had addressed to her in the hour of their capture. It seemed that the pair were no strangers, but it was equally clear that they were not friends.

Whatever nexus between them, in relation to Ringing Sands, Rahman Ali might represent, it was clear that the Cossack and Narani had not been working together to a common end. Both were interested in Rahman Ali and in Ringing Sands, but apparently from different motives. He recalled Melnikoff's words about her house in the Caucasus; and then like a searchlight cutting through the darkness which shrouded the woman's actions, came the remembrance of her words spoken that very day about Rahman Ali.

'But for me he is an instrument of vengeance.'

Vengeance on whom? Instantly his mind made answer: The Cossack!

Melnikoff himself had revealed what lay behind the desire. In the days of the Revolution be had approached her with some offer to save her home, herself, and the brother mentioned, on conditions which apparently she had refused with scorn, and as a result had seen the threatened destruction fall, and had herself been driven into strange exile. So the situation presented itself to him, and as he looked ahead and saw her swaying to the motion of the pony to which she was tied, he visioned her, outwardly gay, but with an implacable purpose in her heart, working in underground ways to achieve the revenge she had planned. There were many things which be could not understand; her position in Delhi; her relation to Rahman Ali; her part as a smuggler of rifles into the hills; her apparent knowledge of the mad plot of which Ringing Sands was the centre; her acceptance by the wild hill folk, who were being drawn into that movement, but behind them all be saw one thing dearly— her projected vengeance on Ivan Melnikoff.

He stared past the Cossack to the woman, and momentarily forgot his own parlous case in pity for her. Her purposed revenge, whatever the form it was to have taken, had gone awry. Melnikoff was no dupe of her wiles; he had outdone her in guile; and she herself seemed likely to be a tragic victim.

The path found crazily along, the nullah became a mere defile, until they were forced again into the bed of the stream, with huge cliffs on either hand, blacker than the darkness, with, above, a patch of moonlit sky. Huge rocks, and slippy boulders bestrewed the narrow waterway, and between them, in and out, the little party moved forward; seeing the giant rocks lift themselves like black ghosts in the eerie darkness.

Drenched anew, numbed, bruised, with the skin of his neck chafed by the encircling rope, and his throat sore by the constant tightening of it. Claverdon marvelled that the way could be followed at all. But the man leading Narani's pony must have been familiar with every inch of the track, and apparently the Cossack was no stranger, for they kept steadily on until once more they reached a point where the track diverged from the stream, and wound upward along the face of the cliff, with the cliff on the other side closing in on them, but with a streak of moonlight now lighting the way. It lit Narani's bowed figure ahead, with the wild hill-man by her side, and it showed him the Red Cossack swaying this way and that in the saddle, as the necessities of the track demanded, an ominous figure for himself who with the rough rope chafing his neck, travelled at his pony's tail. It crossed his mind that here in these wild hills life did not change. So many women, since the days of Alexander, must have marched with woe in their hearts; so, many men with ropes about them must have ascended this steep Via Dolorosa to such an end as was already shadowing himself. Suddenly the path seemed to end.

A huge mass of rock blocked the fissure from side to side, black and forbidding in the moonlight, whilst far below this natural bridge came the sound of falling water. Claverdon beard the hill-man bidding Narani dismount, and Melnikoff himself slipped from the saddle, loosed the halter-rope from the pony, and handed the loose end to one of the men who marched behind.

'You will not attempt any tricks if you are wise, my friend,' he said, addressing the Englishman. 'Listen! You hear the water crashing on the rocks. It is a long fall for the water— but longer for you if you are thrust over the edge, as you surely will be if you try to escape.'

He cut the bonds which were on Claverdon's wrists, and to the man who held the rope gave a ferocious order, bidding him thrust the Englishman over the dizzy edge at the least sign of a breakaway; then leaving his pony standing with the second hill-man he moved ahead. Presently out of the darkness there came the stamp of hoofs, the urging voices of men, the sound of a stumble, of a, harsh Russian oath, and a gruff native voice.

'The curse of Allah on the beast―'

That the road presented difficulties, and that there was trouble with the pony, the rounds made quite plain. He stared at the blocking rock, black and gigantic in the moonlight, marvelling at the formation of it, and wondering in what titanic convulsion it had been tossed and wedged there. Then there reached him a shout that proclaimed successful effort, and whilst be watched, he saw on the top of the great rock, and moving across it, the figures of a man and the pony that he led silhouetted against the moonlight.

They crossed safely, and leaving the pony standing, the man returned, and the Cossack's voice sounded handily, bidding Waram move forward. Apparently he made some demur, for again Menlikoff a voice came, brutal and domineering— 'Have you forgotten the whip, or would you have me use it? Get forward, or by God―'

Sounds of stumbling came through the darkness: a sharp, butt cry, a space of silence followed, then again the Cossack's harsh tones speaking the dialect of the Hills— 'Your arms, Futteh. The woman has fallen and is senseless; she must be carried.'

Claverdon started at the words, but a none-too-gentle tug of the rope by the hill-man behind reminded him of his own helplessness, and crashing the wrath he felt he remained still, waiting, watching. Once more there was a sound of scrambling, a stumbling noise in the darkness ahead, and as it ceased Claverdon watched the bridging rock, and caw the big hill-man stalk across in the moonlight with Narani thrown over his shoulder like a sack of fodder. The man returned alone, and Melnikoff came back for his pony, which, presently was led across the bridge; then its owner spoke to his prisoner.

'Your turn, fool! I am afraid yon will find the scramble a hard one, but that man behind you with the rope will help.' He laughed harshly and then cried bullyingly, 'Forward, you English dog.'

Claverdon was unmoved by the others violence of speech, and as the native behind him shook the rope, much as more civilised men shake a horse's reins, reminding him of his comparative helplessness to resent anything, he moved forward. In a minute he was in the dark, and scrambling up a kind of rocky staircase that as it seemed to him must have been cut-out of the solid stone. It was black as pitch, but stretching his arms he was able to feel rocky walls on either side of him. and standing upright he could not touch the arch above. It was indeed a scramble, and for him was complicated almost at the start by a slip of the hill-man behind him, and by the tug of the rope that followed and jerked him off his feet so that he rolled down on the hill-man, and the pair of them fell out of the tunnel together, almost at the Cossack's feet.

'The curse of Allah―' began the hill-man roaringly as picking himself up he drew a knife, utterly ignoring his own part in the mishap. Melnikoff intervened sharply.

'Put that away, Shere. The time for the killing is not yet. Better to ahead and lead the pig you cannot drive.'

The hill-man put his knife away sulkily, then he laughed as the beauty of the situation came to his dull mind, and promptly turned to the tunnelled way again, saving a quick tug on the rope as he did so. The noose tightened sharply, half-choking Claverdon; but knowing the uselessness of protest, he made none. He scrambled into the tunnel almost at the heels of the hill-man, who twice deliberately kicked backward, meaning, as it seemed, to take his captive in the face. But after the first attempt, Claverdon slipped back a yard, and as he did so a plan of escape leaned into his head.

Half-way up the rocky staircase on a comparatively level piece the hill-man halted to take breath, and in the darkness, with the circulation coming back into his hands and arms, Claverdon eased the noose about his neck. Then, as the slipped the noose from his neck and, gripping the rope with his hand, as the other tugged he made a gurgling cry. The hill-man laughed ferociously, and gave another jerk on the rope, to which Claverdon responded with another strangled cry of protest. The scramble grew more severe. Claverdon found himself wondering how it was possible to get ponies up the incline at all; then he caught a faint radiance made by the moonlight penetrating the passage at the upper outlet. Knowing that the end of the scramble was almost reached, lie braced himself for action.

Half a minute later as the passage turned, he saw the hill-man's figure outlined against the light, and purposely dragged a little on the rope, holding his hands to his neck. The hill-man turned, laughed brutally, and jerked the rope in a way that would have come near to dislocating Claverdon's neck had the rope been where the barbarian thought it was. With a groan, Claverdon hurried forward, shortening the distance between them, and then the native passed out of the tunnel into the moonlight and stood waiting. Hands still to throat. Claverdon followed, praying that the other would not notice that the rope was no longer in place. As he moved into the moonlight, Claverdon glanced hastily about him. Above him towered a splintered crag that no mountaineer could have climbed. On the other side of the great fissure, a great tooth of rock  lifted itself into the moonlight, and running along the face of it was a path where the man Futteh was busy roping the seemingly unconscious Narani to a pony.

The natural bridge, as he saw in a glimpse, was not so broad as it had appeared from below, and for dizzy heads was a perilous way. But it offered a chance that Claverdon meant to take, and as the hill-man tugged at the rope he fallowed him closely. Beneath them yawned black deeps. If a man slipped off that bridge there was nothing to break his fall till he struck the rocky bed of the stream far below. The hill-man, a cragsman born, trod the perilous path, sure-footed as a mountain sheep; only once did he look behind him, and that was when Claverdon dragged on the rope a little; then he jerked the rope, and, evidently under the impression that his captive was afraid, cried out—

'Come, fool! The road is broad enough for a cart.'

It was scarcely that, but it was narrow enough for Claverdon's purpose, and when half-way across, he gave a swift glance backward. Melnikoff and the third hill-man were not in sight, having as he guessed entered the tunnel. A swift glance forward showed him the native by the pony, stooping to tie a rope, with the pony between, himself and the bridge pathway.

The moment had come, and Claverdon acted promptly. Gathering the rope in his hand he flung it at the man in front of him. The fellow started and staggered under the unexpectedness of the attack; and as be half-turned Claverdon leaped and struck at the same time— a savage body blow under which the recipient tottered, stepped backward, and trod on nothing. As he began to topple into the gulf the moon light showed his face ghastly and stark with sudden terror. His arms went up, a wild scream broke from him echoing weirdly in the bills, as he turned a complete somersault and vanished into the blackness.

Claverdon did not pause for a second. Conscious that the man by the pony had straightened himself and was staring wonderingly at him he leaped forward to cover the distance between them. The hill-man was taken utterly by of the pony or so much as draw a knife Claverdon reached the animal and smote it savagely on the nose. The poor brute squealed and backed upon the native, crushing him against the rocky wall; and in the confusion the fugitive slipped past and ran alone the rocky track which followed the hillside.

He heard a hoarse shout behind him, then came the crack of a line, reverberating astonishingly in that, rocky place. A bullet clipped the cliff ten yards ahead of him, and knowing that now he was within an ace of death, he ran recklessly along the perilous track towards some rocks ahead which promised shelter.

Chapter 12

THE ROCKS for which Claverdon raced were part of some great fall from the hill above, and the track plainly swerved to avoid the worst of the fall. Just as he passed the first of the bigger rocks a second bullet splashed upon it, and he knew that he had retained his life by a second of time and no more. But for how long was another question. Before him ran, this spidery way among the rocks— little better than a goat-track, leading into the heart of the most desolate hills in the world; behind him were three men all armed, utterly unscrupulous where the life of an enemy was concerned, while he himself was without means of, defence, without food or a single one of the necessities of life in this wild region.

The facts of the situation were already registering themselves in his brain as he ran, but he did not pause or for so much as a second slacken speed. Guessing that until his companions appeared the hill-man who had fired after him would be anchored by the side of the pony bearing the unconscious Narani, he made the best use of the time it gave him, and now in the moonlight, now m shadow, ran forward as fast as he dare.

It was a nightmare effort, for the track meandered a good deal among fallen rock, and beneath the feet were loose stones, some of them very sharp, making any great speed difficult, since a fail whilst running might send him over the edge of the path to the river after the hill-man. He had to watch his goings, and in the queer light that was not easy, and he had run but a little way when up the valley came the second sound of shouting voices. Melnikoff had crossed the bridge, and was hearing Futteh's account of his escape.

As he told himself that he quickened his pace, knowing that now he had but a very brief time to put himself out of rifle-shot. Melnikoff himself or one of the others, perhaps both, would take up the pursuit. And they knew this gut of the bills as he did not. The hill-men, used to the rough mountain tracks, would follow him sure-footed as mountain sheep. To keep on along this narrow track followed by sure-footed men armed with rifles was to invite disaster, and as he ran he looked for some place where he could turn aside.

Such refuge, however, seemed beyond hope. On one side of him was the gorge with the river far below, and on the other cliffs of fantastically shaped rocks, which it was impossible to scale. He heard a drift of voices again, and for a couple of seconds paused to listen, and as he did so caught the sound of running feet— feet that ran steadily, like those of men who meant to wear out rather than to run their quarry down. There was a quite horrible suggestion, of inevitability in the sound, and as he ran on again he had a desperate feeling that but for some intervention of fate he was wholly lost.

The gorge widened a little. He reached a place where the cliffs gave place to a long stony ascent up which the track turned. The stones shot from under, his feet as he ran labouringly up the steep path— on an open face on which the moonlight made all things visible. If he were not clear of it before his pursuers came in sight of it. then the end was sure. A new bluff, white in the moonlight, thrust itself out of the hillside above— a bare rib of rock. There were boulders beyond, patches of darkness winch he suddenly realised were some sort of stunted bushes. His straining heart leaped at the sight; there, at any rate, was some sort of cover, if only he could reach it before being overtaken, or picked off like a sheep on this bare slope of stones.

He looked back over his shoulder once as he scrambled towards the bluff. The pursuit was not yet in sight, and as be reached the shadow of the bluff beneath which the path zigzagged, new hope came to him. He ran perhaps a score of yards farther along the track till it began to twist among the boulders, then deliberately leaving it he raced for one of the patches of scrub. He changed his mind before he reached the bushes. It was precisely such cover that anyone in pursuit of a fugitive would beat thoroughly. The obvious hiding-place was one to be avoided. With his heart labouring badly, his lungs breathing gaspingly, his eyes sought for a more sure hiding-place; and as they did so there reached him once more the sound of voices.

He swung towards the bluff itself. It was bare of scrub, with nothing but two or three flat stones in the way of hiding-places, and the moon light poured full upon it. Anyone hunting for a fleeing man would scarcely look at it twice, being assured that everything there was revealed to his first glance. One side of the flat stones was in shadow, and dropping on his knees he crawled towards them. Reaching them he found that as a hiding-place they were better than they had promised. Two of them were close together, with an opening between them wide enough for him to crawl into, and the height of the upper rock was sufficient to throw the whole crack into shadow.

Congratulating himself on his luck, he lay full length on his face in the fine gravel at the bottom, thinking whimsically to himself that the place was like a stone coffin.

A minute or two passed. His heart grew steadier, his breathing less laboured, then he heard a man stumble on the hill track below him, and an exasperated voice reached him:—

'God's curse on the infidel!'

The rattle of stones began anew. He heard the feet of the pursuers, cased as they were in stout Bokhara shoes, almost immediately below him. Apparently his pursuers were making no attempt at secrecy, knowing him to be unarmed, and being certain of their ability to overtake their quarry. He heard them pass the bluff, and proceed up the track past the point where he himself had turned aside. He waited breathlessly for what was to follow.

Nothing happened. The sound of receding feet died away up the hillside, but he himself remained quite still in his sepulchre-like hiding-place, fighting down an intense curiosity to life his head and observe what was happening. Quite a long time passed. A gust of wind came down from the peaks above, and the shadow of the narrow place where he lay seemed to grow deeper. Thinking it was some illusion he lifted his head slightly, and saw that a cloud was drifting across the face of the moon. He thanked heaven for that friendly shadow growing on the world, and a moment or two after heard shod hoofs ringing on a rocky place. He could see nothing, but had no difficulty in interpreting the sound. Melnikoff, with the two ponies and Narani, was ascending the slope towards the bluff in the wake of the pursuit.

A wild thought came to him that possibly he might surprise the Cossack and release his captive, possibly secure the renegade's rifle and, so armed, meet the hill-men on equal terms. He was still revolving this desperate plan in his mind, when a hailing voice somewhere up the elope put it out of his thought.

The two pursuers were evidently returning in their tracks, probably convinced that they had overrun their quarry. Another voice answered the hail— Melnikoff's.

'Have you found the English devil?'

The answer did not reach him clearly, but knowing what it must be laughed softly to himself, and then as the shadow about him grew deeper still and the noise of the wind more pronounced, he risked a glance round. Away to the left he thought he caught sight of a shadowy figure, but was not sure. It might or might not be one of the hill-men, and having nothing to gain by making sure at the risk of discovery he ducked his head once more.

Something struck him sharply on the nape of the neck, startling him unutterably; there was a rattling sound on the rocks, and further pelting of himself. One of the swift mountain storms had broken, and it was hailing furiously.

He rejoiced at the fact, though the howling wind sweeping the hail into the  crevice brought acute discomfort. In no time at all the narrow place was full of hail, which, pelting on the rocks like peas, was blown into the hollow. Only his face, fronting the opening, was uncovered, and he knew that even if his pursuers should search the bluff he was now very effectually hidden.

The consciousness of that reconciled him to the bitter cold which, striking through his sheepskin coat, nipped him to the bone, and he lay still, waiting for developments. The sharp storm was over in a few minutes. The light of the moon broke clear again, and in front of him across the gorge he saw the face of a great hill glistening in the light. Then voices reached him from below the bluff.

'Excellency, maybe the infidel fell over the rocks to the water as he ran from me.'

'Maybe — Gehenna! Did you search?'

'As one seeks a shot quail in the bushes.'

'And you are sure the infidel isn't running ahead?'

'Very sure, Excellency. Before the storm broke we could see the track for a mile.'

'Also,' broke in another voice, 'at first we heard the man running, then came silence, suddenly, as when a tired man drops―'

'Or stumbles over a cliff to nothingness, Excellency.'

'Then may his soul shrivel in hell,' snorted the Cossack, evidently as willing to suffer conviction as the hill-men were to convince. 'We will go forward.  If he is behind, your brethren will gather him, if he is in front he is our game— and if neither he is a frozen corpse by morning. March!'

The clatter of hoofs and marching feet began anew; Claverdon heard the party pass from below up the ascending track, and after a little time he ventured to look forth again.

The little cavalcade was toiling up the steep ascent. Three of the party, were walking by the ponies, on one of  which rode a fourth who, he decided, was Narani, now recovered from her mishap in the tunnelled way. Against the whitened surface of the ground, under the moonlight, he could see them quite plainly, and be watched them for a long time, not daring to more.

Only once did one of the marching men halt and turn to look back, and then but for a very brief time. Evidently they believed him dead or utterly lost. But he did not presume upon this conviction. Bitterly cold though he was, he remained in his hiding-place until the party had quite disappeared from sight, and even after that for a little time he did not move, thinking to himself that from the higher ground they might possibly see, him whilst themselves  invisible. But at last he crawled forth, shook the hail from his sheepskin coat, wiped the moisture from the back of his neck, where, the frozen particles had thawed, and slipping down to the track in the lee of the bluff, stamped his feet and clapped his arms in the attempt to get rid of the chill in his bones. When the glow spread through his veins, he ceased his more violent exertions, and pacing to and fro he gave himself up to a calm consideration of his situation.

It was, he decided, almost as bad as it well could be. He was without arms or food in a wild region where now he was liable to be shot at sight by anyone who was a friend of Melnikoff, and where in any case every man's hand was against a stranger. In a little time in these stark hills he was bound to die, unless he could secure the means of life represented by the things he lacked, and how to come by those was his first problem.

He remembered Nima-Tashi, and the ravaged-faced man who had babbled deliriously in Russian. They had escaped from the village, they had not been taken, and if be knew anything of the Tibetan he had certainly not gone without his rifle. If he could any way establish connection with his friend then he might be saved from the peril of lonely death which beset any man in his situation among those stark hills. But to do that he must go back across that stone bridge, through the tunnelled way down the nullah in the direction of the village: for it seemed certain that the line of Nima-Tashi's flight must have been in the direction of the woods through which they had reached the village.

But Ringing Sands lay in the other direction— along that climbing track taken by Melnikoff. And there lay the secret that it was his duty to unravel, there the heart of a movement that he must somehow check. That consideration held him for but a moment.

'A live dog―' he murmured to himself; and turning he began to follow the backward way. The wind, coming down from the high hills, was bitterly cold, and to march alone in that great solitude was an eerie experience. Sometimes he stumbled on a loose stone which, rolling down the hill, made a rattle that in volume was far beyond what might have been expected from the size of the stone.

The moan of the wind had a threatening note, and once there came a crashing, rumbling sound that told of the fall of some mass of rock and earth, loosened from its place by the silent disintegrating forces ceaselessly at work. But as he moved downwards, to him came the noise of the stream rippling  against the stones in cavernous depths, and he found it a familiar and friendly sound. Across the narrow valley, the stony hills, now in glistening white, lifted themselves into the moonlight, and as he stared at them, bleak, remote, forbidding, he was overcome by a sense of hopelessness.

Many men had perished miserably in these bills, and if he survived and won the full knowledge of the secret of Ringing Sands, what was there that he could do? Then his mind twisted to the way on which he had, for the time, set his back.

Narani? What would become of her? She was, as he guessed, in the hands of her bitterest enemy— a man who understood her connection The Ringing Sands more fully than he himself did— and who, as the words overheard at Baltit had revealed, knew that she was somehow a menace, to the purpose which he sought. And the Red Cossack had an old grudge against her which made him more than willing to throw her to an unspeakable degradation.

He remembered how, she had come to warn him, and suddenly visioned her as she had stood by his camp-fire with the question as to her woman's power on her lips— smiling, enigmatic, infinitely alluring, beautiful with uncommon beauty. Then he thought of a Russian woman who he had seen in Kashgar, a victim of the Kirghiz rebellion against the Czar— one of the hundreds of Russian girls and women sold into vilest slavery without hope of redemption. The woman had been young in years, but the woes of centuries had been in her haggard face and insane eyes; and for her there was no release save death.

That was the fate that Melnikoff designed for Narani— first an unspeakable degradation, and then an intolerable slavery.

'God help her!' he whispered to himself. 'God deliver her.'

He remembered Rahman Ali. For the moment that sprig of a wild hill stock was Narani's sole hope. That he was infatuated with her was beyond question, and if and when he became aware of them he was scarcely likely to fall in with the Cossack's plans for her future. That he merited the contemptuous estimate of him which Melnikoff had reached, Claverdon was far from sure. Reckless, undisciplined, not- burdened by scruples he was yet of a high spirit, and once set in the saddle where Melnikoff meant him to ride as a puppet, he was capable of taking charge over the Cossack's head; and in a jehad the tribesmen would follow him before any man not of their own race. He nodded to himself as he thought these things, and whispered his next thought:—

'If only Melnikoff does not hold her in hiding! Or if only Rahman Ali discovers her―'

A loose stone, half-hidden in hail, on which he set his foot sent him sprawling, and as he picked himself up he gave closer attention to his goings. He was approaching the bridge which led across the nullah to the tunnelled way, and as be reached it the gorge grew darker, and looking up he saw the face of the moon was again becoming obscured with flying clouds. That a fresh storm was coming seemed certain, and he hurried across the bridge before the storm should break. He had scarcely reached the entrance to the tunnel, when the icy rain swept down the gorge, and hurrying into its depths he seated himself just at the turn, where he could escape the worst of the blast, and from which it would be possible to escape either way, in the inconceivable event of someone using the track in the dead of night. There he heard the wind whistling in fury, obliterating all other sounds, and as the storm. continued for some time, unutterably weary as he was, found himself nodding. He jerked himself into wakefulness, and listening to the storm strove to keep sleep at bay: but presently he nodded, again, and finally tired nature had her way and he slept profoundly.

A full two hours later he awoke with a crash of hoofs in his ears, and stared round in the darkness. The tunnel was full of sound: and it was impossible to say from which direction it came. He rose sharply to his feet, and in some bewilderment stared this way and that into the darkness. Then he caught the sound of a pony's stumbling, and a booming voice roared savagely:—

'Sheitan! Stand up, fool!'

His heart leaped at the sound.

'Nima!' he cried almost, deliriously. 'Nima-Tashi!'

The sound of boots suddenly stayed; and out of the blackness came a startled cry.

'Krishna! It is a ghost that talks in this pit of hell!'

'Nima, you old heathen, I'm no ghost, but a glad man to see you!'

'To see,' came the answer, with a laugh that proved the Tibetan was reassured. 'Ho-o! Thou must have bat's eyes to do it. Myself, I am blind in darkness, and this thrice-cursed beast is without feeling in his hoofs. He is Sheitan's own child! But how far runs this bowel of darkness?'

'But a little way―'

'The gods be praised!' boomed Nima, and then addressed the recalcitrant beast. 'Come, thou limb of Sheitan―'

'Wait!' cried Claverdon. 'I will help.'

He scrambled down through the blackness until he caught the warm breath of the pony, then stretching a groping hand he found the bridle, and spoke:—

'Now, together, Nima!'

'Heave, child of Gehenna!' roared the Tibetan, and as the two of them put their strength out the pony surmounted the difficulty, and soon they were standing at the entrance to the tunnel, looking forth on the florae new darkening with the setting of the moon.

Claverdon looked from the loaded pony to the man:

'In God's name how did you secure the pony and get here?'

'The way of it was simpler than life,' chuckled the other. 'I wakened, and, finding the door open, and thee missing, looked, forth, and seeing the trouble that had come to thee and the woman was not minded to share it. In that moment also one who was in the hut, a crazy stranger from the gods knew where, gripped my arm. That man,' he said, pointing at thy captor, 'is the devil!'

'I am of that faith,' said I, 'and am not minded to fall into his talons.'

'Then come quickly,' whispered the crazy one, and since in this he seemed sane as another, I followed him. We went round the hut, climbed the stall where the ponies were tethered, and thence, up to the flat roof of the hut, whence we watched the hunt for ourselves in safety, for it is the way with fools to search the ends of the earth and smell not that which is beneath their noses— though to be sure our scent was above their heads. We saw thee and the woman led across the valley— Krishna! where is Narani?'

'On her way to Ringing Sands— a prisoner of the Cossack, still.'

'But we follow. O-ho! we follow. That man afflicted of the gods who waits at the lower end of this gut of night with the second pony―'

'You got two, Nima?' cried Claverdon.

'Two and the stores; also the rifles and the cartridges which we came with up to the top of the house.... That crazy one— in whose brain are maggots that bite—was mad to shoot thy Cossack then, having some score of his own to settle; but remembering how many men there were in the village who might seek to revenge him I forbade, and finally choked the witless one to obedience.... But when ye had departed, and the villagers slept the deep sleep of the hills. I brought him with me, for he knows the hills here as I know those beyond Leh, and can lead us to Ringing Sands, where he will slay the Cossack as the wolf slays with his teeth, tearing at the throat if the opportunity offers.... But wait here whilst I bring him, or maybe he will think me swallowed in this black womb of the rocks. Hold thou the pony, my friend, whilst I go.'

Louis Claverdon was a grateful man as he took the pony's leading-rope. As he looked up the darkling gorge, fronting the bitter wind, he was conscious of a great uplift.

This new turn of events made possible the further pursuance, of the task to which he had set himself; and if that crazed, broken man who had babbled to himself in Russian knew the way to Ringing Sands, the fulfilment of the task came at any rate on the outer verge of possibility.

Then there was Narani. If the pace was pushed he might somehow save her from the Red Cossack's vengeance, deliver her from dependence upon Rahman Ali, see her wonderful eves glow with gratitude―

Voices in the tunnel broke on his thoughts: he heard Nima volleying oaths, caught the snorting of the labouring beast, and just before the Tibetan emerged from the tunnel at the pony's head, saw hanging high above that world of rocks and hills the Pole star, indicating the northern way. He found it an augury of good hope; and again he thought of Narani's eves as he turned to meet the haggard man to whose unconscious bawlings he had listened in the sleepless hours.

Chapter 13

IT WAS THREE days later, and in a camp pitched in the midst of stony and desolate hills, across a meagre fire, Claverdon stared despairingly at Nima-Tashi.

'This half-witted Russian has lost the way. We are astray in the worst country in the world. God help us— and Narani nil' '

'Aye, ' agreed the Tibetan, without much show of feeling. 'God help us! We shall need all His help to get out of this. By the holy Lotus, what a land! The hills are like the waves of the sea, which once I saw— like them turned to rock. There is no end to them. They follow each other as the undulations in the ripening barley when the wind is blowing, and in places it seems that the devils who inhabit this desolation amuse themselves by rolling whole hills down the slopes of bigger hills. The land is like a devil-haunted dream.'

Claverdon did not contradict him, instead he looked towards the outer edge of the camp where was seated the half-witted Russian who it seemed was leading them to disaster.

'We were foolish to trust the man. He is no more than a child.'

'But with a man's hate, my friend! When he speaks of the Red Cossack the fires of hell are in his eyes. And it is odd that hate should lead a man away from his quarry. Passion for a woman so blinds the eyes that one sees not clearly, but the hate of a man for a man cleanses the eyes so that they see unerringly until the hand gives the death stroke.... And the man is very sure! That is to be remembered. Before he slept he told me that on the morrow we should hear the ghostly music of Ringing Sands, but I did not believe him. Who would do so when for two days we have not seen a track, nor the trace of a human foot, . and no living things save the eagles? It is too much to hope that―'

He broke off sharply as the man across the fire, whom he had thought was sleeping, most unexpectedly sat up, a strange, stark, intense look on his ravaged face.

'Hark!' he whispered in an odd voice, his eyes fixed in the tense, far-away look of one whose whole being is engrossed in the single act of listening.

'What is it?' asked Claverdon, a little impressed by the crazy man's manner.

'The ringing of the sands,' whispered the man with hoarse impressiveness.

'The man hears noises in his crazy mind,' muttered Nima. 'I myself in the silences by the camp-fire of a night have heard voices―'

'S-s-s-h-h!' hissed Claverdon peremptorily. 'Listen!'

The Tibetan said no more, but sat quiet, whilst Claverdon stared into the darkness, his ears alert for any noise. Then he heard what the crazy man had heard — a far-off pulsating sound impinging on the ears so faintly that it was in fact less a sound than a murmur in the air.

He looked at Nima-Tashi as his ear-drums registered the faint sound, and from the look on the big man's face knew that he also had heard it.

'You heard, Nima?' he asked whimperingly.

'I heard something,' said Nima sceptically. 'The rumble of an avalanche or the rush of rocks down a far hillside. Nothing more! The maggots in the man's crazy brain are turning, and―'

'No! No! Listen!' whispered Claverdon tensely.

Again the distant sound reached their straining ears and Claverdon saw a sudden flash in the Tibetan's eyes.

'By the Jewel! It is as if a gong were beaten in some far-off lamasery.'

'It is no gong,' avowed Claverdon with conviction.  'Hearken, Nima. In the days before you were born, and before the British Raj ruled in Hind, there was a man who travelled these lands, and who in a book told of a place like that which we seek. He said that in the part of which he wrote there was a strange sandhill which sometimes sent forth a sound of musical instruments and still more commonly the sound of drums. He was a great traveller, and a man of  truth. And when I sat in the serai at Srinagar listening to the words of the men who were talking of ringing sands, there was one who said the sands made a sound like that of beaten nagaras; which is exactly square with what that old traveller said, and with the tale of thy drunken camel driver―'

'Aye, and with that sound we heard,' broke in Nima eagerly. 'One does not expect to hear drums in these devil-haunted hills. That man afflicted of the gods may be leading us right.'

'Yes,' answered Claverdon tersely.

'It is a miracle,' said Nima. 'The man is crazed, but he has a bird's sense of direction. I have seen a man like that before. It would seem that after all we are to come to Ringing Sands.'

'Yes! And heaven send we are in time,' replied Claverdon fervently.

For the next hour or so, when the Tibetan had given himself to sleep, Claverdon sat by the fire, his ears straining for any repetition of the sound He had heard. But they were strained in vain. He heard nothing more that night, nor yet when the next day they continued their journey. That, however, was in no way surprising, for they marched with a following wind roaring cast their ears, filling the Valley with a humming noise and drowning all other sounds.

For perhaps two hours they matched, and at the end of that time, Nima-Tashi, who was leading, stopped suddenly and in the same instant thrust his rifle forward for action.

'What?'

'A man lies in the rocks at the foot of that cliff ahead. I can see his feet.'

Claverdon stared in the direction indicated, and saw the lower half of a man's legs. His first thought was that they had walked into an ambush, and he looked hastily round for cover. Then one of the feet of the otherwise hidden man jerked convulsively, lifted sharply, and fell back beside its fellow.

'That is not a man waiting to shoot,' he whispered. 'He would have fired before now, and in any case if he were waiting with others to take us he would have remained quite still. Come, we will take a chance.'

They moved forward and in. three or four minutes reached the rocks. The man whose legs they had seen was lying there, muttering brokenly to himself, his shaven head bare, with a Dard cap lying near. Realising that the man was sick, Claverdon turned him over, and as he did so a pair of heavy horn spectacles slipped from the man's nose, and as the eyelids were lifted he saw that the eyes were sightless, or nearly so, having the pearly film of cataract. Scarcely had he made the discovery when the man began to speak, weakly but in evident anger: —

'Thou hast returned, unfaithful servant, to steal my clothes when I am dead. The curse of God smite thee―'

His voice quavered into silence, and looking at him closely Claverdon realised that he was far gone. He spoke to him gently.

'We are strangers, brother, what evil has overtaken thee?'

'The evil of a thieving servant!... God curse him―'

'Who art thou? And whence comest thou?'

For a little time there was no answer. The sightless eyes closed and the cracked lips murmured unintelligible things, then in a clear voice the man spoke:—

'I am Abdulla, the blind mullah of Gabare... I was to see ... the Imam Medi manifest himself. But now... Curses on that thieving Ibrahim, who stole the pony and―'

Quite sharply he broke off, and to Claverdon's utter amazement jerked himself to his knees, a look on his face that was positively startling. Then in a loud voice he gave forth the testimony of his faith.

'Allah―'

Twice he bowed his head by some strange instinct westward towards Mecca, and in the very act of the third bow toppled over dead.

Nima-Tashi looked down on him.

'A true believer!'

'Yes,' answered Claverdon quickly, and stooped to pick up the dead man's spectacles. 'And a gift of the gods to us. Nima, I must have those robes, that Dard Cap— the shoes—'

'A dead man has no need of such things,' commented the Tibetan, and phlegmatically began to remove the dead priest's outer clothing, tying it in a bundle and slinging it on one of the ponies. He laughed ft little grimly as he finished. 'His servant robbed him living, and we spoil him how that he is dead. But wherefore I know not, for these rags would bring little silver if offered to Mordecai the Jew―'

'Their use will appear presently, possibly. Let us march.'

They moved on, leaving the dead man among the rocks.

LATE IN the afternoon they struck the first real track they had seen for three days. It led upward from the desolate valley they had followed to even more desolate heights, creeping between two hills, the crests of which were white with snow. But as they crossed the summit of the pass, and began to descend the other side, leaving the wind behind them, to their hears was borne a sound that was like the rumble of distant drums.

Nima-Tashi halted abruptly.

'The ghostly nagaras!' he ejaculated.

'Yes,' answered Claverdon, and stared eagerly around. The sound seemed to have come from far away; but of that there was no guarantee, and it seemed wise to reconnoitre lest a reckless plunge forward should throw them all into the Cossack's hands.

The descending track was flanked by hills that prevented any wide view, and leaving Nima and the Russian with the ponies, he climbed one of the hills in order to get a view of what lay beyond.

From the top he looked down on a fairly wide valley, not unlike the one where he had encountered Melnikoff, a valley shut off from the world by splintered peaks, at one end of which was a stone-built village of— the usual type. His field-glasses having been stolen when he was captured, he was unable to discern more than that. He judged that the village was about five miles away but knowing how deceptive distances were in the rarefied and diamond-clear atmosphere of the mountains, was aware that it might prove to be twice that distance.

There was nothing of any particular note that he could see, except a stone tower on a cliff across the valley, which by situation and general appearance reminded him of the castle of Baltit in Hunza. He watched the valley for a few minutes, and gave much attention to the village without observing anything in the least unusual; but whilst he lay on the stones which covered the hill, from somewhere below came again the throbbing, sonorous, sound which he had previously heard.

The noise continued for most of a minute but except that it came from the valley he could not locate the place of its origin. But whilst he strove to do so he became aware of a narrow road at the end of the valley farthest from the village, and as he watched it saw two black moving dots come into view.

'Horsemen,' he guessed to himself, and continued to watch them for a little while as they moved, apparently with infinite slowness, in the direction of the village. Then having learned all there was to be learned, he returned to his companions.

The mad Russian was seated on a rock, staring directly in front of him, and did not so much as look round when he approached; but Nima-Tashi was all excitement.

'Those spirit-drums they sounded anew―'

'I heard them!'

'So did the crazy one. And at the sound he was a man transformed. Knew you he had a knife concealed in those rags?'

'No!'

'But he has! He drew it just now and waved it in the air, whilst he spoke aloud words in his own tongue with the look upon his face of a man who invokes his gods. Seemingly there is some one whom he means to slay.'

Claverdon remembered the Russian's words in the hut at the last village— 'A man's life only can stay my hunger!'— and answered thoughtfully:—

'No doubt of that, I think. I hope he will not complicate matters for us by any lunatic rashness.'

He told the Tibetan what he had seen, and took counsel with him how to proceed.

'There is no doubt we are near the place we seek, and we must move circumspectly, Nima.'

'Aye! A Khyber knife is as sharp here as across the hills, and a bullet flies no less swift. 'Twould be fool's wisdom to throw  ourselves in the way of either.'

'I think we will go forward slowly, and find some secret place to camp. Afterwards in the darkness I will go down to that village and learn what may. be learned.'

'And if the Red Cossack should be there?'

'I shall be another man. There is the mullahs clothing!'

Nima started, and gave one of his rumbling laughs. 'Thus understanding comes. Thou wilt take his place.'

Claverdon nodded. 'I shall be Abdullah, the blind mullah of Gabare in Dardistan―'

'Ugh!' grunted the other. 'I have known a mullah turned into a real saint by the stroke of a hill-man's knife. Afterwards the tribe built him a tomb and prayed there as at a shrine.'

Claverdon laughed. 'I shall avoid such high honour. Be sure of that, Nima—'

'If I could go with―'

'Impossible! One must stand by the ponies. Let us go forward.'

THEY RESUMED their journey, and just as the sun dipped behind the serrated peaks found a place to camp. It lay a little off the track, in a fold of the hills through which a small stream rushed noisily —a place little likely to be visited by anyone using the mountain track. It was littered with stones, with here and there huge boulders, but the hill-side was covered with brushwood, of which they gathered sufficient to make a fire, kindling the latter in a cleft, which formed a natural chimney and hid the glow from any passing eyes.

After the evening meal, whilst the Russian sat staring stonily into the fire. Claverdon changed into the dead mullah's clothing, and having put on the spectacles and the Dard head-dress appeared a different man.

Nima-Tashi considered the spectacles critically.

'Those glass windows―' he began.

'Are good for a blind priest to look out on those whom he may meet!'

'Blind thou wilt be if the Cossack find thee. Arid they will turn thee loose in the hills, or lead thee to the edge of a cliff, or set thee in a ring of knives!'

'What matter? A man dies but once.'

'A newly blinded man dies many times. He cannot see the perils at his feet— but his soul feels them.'

'Croaker!' cried Claverdon, 'I am not blind yet.'

'But a knife heated in the fire will do it, remember, or―'

'Oh, shut up, Nima! I go now, but I will borrow thy knife. Perchance it will save my eyes. Be on the watch with the rifles ready, and if I should return running―'

'I shall sit with finger oh trigger, my friend.'

'Good! Now I go.'

He slipped away in the darkness and presently was following the track in the direction of the village. In the night, with no light but the stars, it was difficult going, and he was thankful when the moon rose to light his way. As he travelled, now and again, far below, he caught brief glimpses of distant fires as doors opened and closed, and once he thought he caught a sound of commotion, but as it quickly passed set it down to an excited imagination. In a trifle under two hours he was at the foot of the hill and within less than five hundred yards of the village, where there seemed to be much coming and going.

Crouching behind a ruined hut at the edge of a stubble field, he considered his next, move. To enter the village surreptitiously was to court suspicion, and ha decided on the bolder course. He would enter it openly, and if challenged cry aloud for his lost servant. But first there was a thing he needed, a thing which took him some little tune to find, but which no blind man would be without— a staff.

A sapling in e small orchard at the far end of the barley-field was sacrificed to this end, and when he had trimmed it, and rubbed it with earth to hide its newness, he had not only a blind man's staff, but a tolerably efficient weapon.

Hiding his knife under his filthy robe, he moved forward quickly until he was nearing the houses, then as he caught the sound of steps, fell into the shuffling walk of the blind, chin-tilted, eyes lifted upward after the way of the sightless.

'The curse of Allah on the ingrate— to leave me to my darkness in this fashion in a strange place. May he shrivel in the undying flames.'

The observer passed on, and as the door closed Claverdon drew a long  breath of relief. He had been afraid at first that the man who had halted had news of him, or suspected him, and the moment had been a bad one. Moving forward, and keeping up his parade of blindness for the benefit of inquisitive eyes, he reached, a more pretentious house than the one he had passed, and which being built round a courtyard was plainly the house of some important personage. There was an arched gateway there without any and from within  came the stamp of horses. He looked around carefully. The moonlight showed him the rough road between the houses empty of life. Keeping up his pretence of feeling his way with his stick, he stepped into the shadow of the gateway, and as he did so suffered a shock.

From somewhere close at hand came the sound of a protesting feminine voice speaking in Russian— Narani's golden voice as he recognised instantly.

'But you cannot do this evil thing. The girl is like a white flower and as fragile.'

Amazed, he looked round, and overhead saw a grating, through which & faint light streamed; then a man laughed brutally, and Claverdon felt his gorge rise as he identified the Cossack's voice.

'A flower for a man to gather and wear for a day. To these barbarians a symbol of the degradation of the race whom they hate— more, a prophecy of the way in which they shall exult themselves as they swarm down to the plains. She was brought here for this very end.'

'But, fool, you do not think you can prevail? And you must know that the English will hunt you across the world for such a crime.'

'Hunt Rahman Ali, rather,' laughed the Cossack. 'They can hunt him to the Pit of burning for me, once he has been manifested and has ridden across the border carrying the sacred flag.'

The Cossack hushed. 'It is something to have for a tool a sincere fool who believes in his own star. He will serve my end well— the mullahs abetting him. They are here for the revelation, and when it is made they will proclaim the jehad from one end of the hills to the other. And you know what will follow. There are rifles every where, and more than rifles — machine-suns, bombs counted, by the thousand―'

'But where are these things?' came the woman's voice, an inflection of scepticism in it. 'It is easy to boast.'

'And almost as easy to act,' laughed the Cossack. 'These fools of English are so blind. The power of the Soviet Government is a theme for jest with them! Except for a man here and there, they do not understand how that power runs like underground fire in peaty soil. Yet if they looked at China, Java, at the league of Asiatic peoples―' He broke off and laughed. 'Their own coal strike teaches them nothing! They have eyes but see not. But here we shall open them— when it is too late to be of use. For three years I have worked. The Moslem is the fighting-man. He has a faith that glows red hot under a very little fanning— and I have such a fan that his faith will glow incandescently―'

'In Rahman Ali?' broke in the woman's voice, with a note of challenging contempt.

Melnikoff laughed.

'No! In the revelation of which he will be the medium. Even now he shaves his head for the great hour.'

'It is soon then? To-night? Tomorrow?'

'Neither! In three days.'

'Three days! Three days!'

The words rang through Claverdon's mind. He had three days in which to confound the work of three years, plans made by a cunning brain, and in their ramifications taking in half a hundred hill tribes and heaven knew what other people besides— for the Red virus had poisoned half the East, and no one was sure of this little state or that.

As he stood there in the dark, he felt like a man standing there in a great mine waiting for that spurt of the detonator that would send the earth above flying skywards. There was but one way to prevent the explosion in the time left to him, and that was to remove the detonator, Melnikoff ?

'No! Not Melnikoff!' his mind corrected promptly. 'Rahman Ali!'

He must find him before the pseudo-revelation could materialise, find him and snatch him away, or kill him; for a dead prophet or no prophet at all would turn the whole business of the revelation into a fiasco. But where was the man? Unless he could lay hands on him―

A burst of mirthless laughter broke on his thoughts, and he heard Melnikoff's voice again:— 'Yes! to the dirtiest and most scrofulous of all the crowd! You know these hill-mullahs— lecherous as dogs. Among their own they exercise the old droit du seigneur of more cultured climes, and none will be backward— none! And when the march south begins the girl will travel at a pony's trail, rope round her neck— the symbol of the degradation awaiting her race. It will be a moving spectacle―'

'Oh,' broke in Narani's voice, tense and vibrant. 'You have a Hunnish mind, Ivan Melnikoff!'

The man's laugh, callous and brutal, followed the words, and then came his voice again. 'I make no claim to sainthood— like Rahman Ali. I use the tools best fitted for the purpose, and this one is a good one. And the girl's fate need not distress you; you will have troubles of your own, as I have explained.' He broke off, laughed again, and once more his words reached the listener.

'I go now. But I will return shortly. Au revoir― my golden one.'

Claverdon looked hastily round. There would be but one outlet that Melnikoff could use— the archway in which he himself stood. To stay there was to invite discovery. It was time to go. He turned towards the entrance, and as he did so his heart leaped to his mouth. Standing in the entrance in silhouette, black as coal against the moonlight, was a man's tall figure. He could not see the mans face, nothing, indeed, save his outline; but the fellow stood there quite motionless, apparently watching himself.

Claverdon considered the chances carefully. The archway was in darkness, but against the moonlight in the courtyard he himself must be as visible to this silent watcher as the latter was to him. He heard a door opening, and with but a moment to make up his mind, took a chance. He tapped with his stick and began to move forward, droning aloud.

'God curse the unfaithful servant, who was eyes to me, and hath gone after a light woman. May his soul writhe in the great Smoke, may...'

He had almost reached the watcher and paused irresolutely, as if made aware of the man's presence by that sixth sense which, with the blind takes the place of sight.

'Is that thee, Ibrahim?' he asked sharply, at the same time feeling about with his staff. The staff touched a leg, none too gently, and again he spoke.

'Ah, it is thee, dog, returned from thy sin! For that I have been left to wander like a pelican in the wilderness there is punishment―'

He swung back the staff threateningly, but before he could strike, the watcher answered:

'Nay, brother of the Faithful, I am not thy wicked servant, but like thyself a servant of Allah— the Compassionate. Thy hand, brother, and I will lead thee whither thou wouldst go.'

There was the sound of well-shod feet behind him, and guessing that the Cossack was coming, Claverdon thrust out a groping hand.

'Allah who sendeth help be praised, brother! I have no lodging, for that rogue my servant hath deserted me―' The sounding feet behind drew level as a hand found his groping one. They stopped, but Claverdon forbore to turn his head.

'What is this?' demanded Melnikoff's voice harshly.

'A blind brother whose servant is lost—' began a smooth voice.

'Nay, he hath run at a light woman's heels, and left me. May Allah curse him with seven plagues and burn him with unbelievers!'

Melnikoff gave a subdued chuckle 'But he will return stripped— and repentant. Have no fear! He will be very humble.'

'He shall suffer grievous torment―'

'Aye. From thy staff. Admonish him sightless one, admonish him.'

The Cossack broke off and peered into the pseudo-mullahs face. Claverdon was conscious of the fierce eyes raking him keenly, then came a question crisply asked:

'But whence comest thou, mullah? I have not seen thy face before.'

'I am the blind mullah of Gabare in Dardistan,' answered Claverdon, remembering what the dead mullah had said, come to the great manifestation. Perchance the great Imam Medi will touch my eyes to sight anew.'

'Maybe he will work the miracle when thou shalt see him, Holy One,' answered Melnikoff, with double meaning, and with, to Claverdon's relief, a distinct loss of interest. Then without further question or remark the Cossack strode away, and as his spurred heels rang up the street the man who held Claverdon's hand spoke again—

'Come, brother, I have a lodging. We will share it until the erring Ibrahim returns.'

For one moment Claverdon hesitated, wondering into what lion's mouth he might be thrusting his head. Then remembering there were things he must learn, and which this friendly priest might know, he took the risk.

'Lead on, brother, but warn my stumbling feet when the road is rough.'

And with the other's hand gripping his firmly, he shuffled forth to the moonlit road.

Chapter 14

GUIDED BY the unknown, within five minutes Claverdon found himself standing outside a small house on the outer rim of the cluster of buildings that made up the village.

'We have arrived,' said his mentor. 'Wait here and I will make a light.'

'Which will be wasted on my blind eyes— to which light and dark are both alike.'

'Aye, but no waste to me, brother, in a house that is hired from its owner. Also I would look upon the face of a friend.'

Claverdon was not particularly anxious that he should, but made no unreasonable demur, and presently he was standing by a smoky fire, staring through his spectacles at the man who stood in the dim light of the primitive lamp. His host, quite unconscious of his guest's scrutiny, was in turn examining him closely, and in silence. Claverdon noticed that, and as the man the better to see his face lifted the lamp, holding it so that the light fell on his own face as on his guests, he gave a little start.

'It is far for a blind man to travel from Gabare in Dardistan to this place, brother,' said his host a little tentatively.

Claverdon grinned suddenly and replied in English. 'True! It is farther than from the house in the garden at Baltit!'

'The devil!' cried the other, amazed. 'Claverdon!'

'Who else, Waldron? You gave me a bad scare when I saw you watching me in that gateway.'

'You were the man in the street?'

'Yes! I followed you, thinking I might scrape acquaintance and learn something.'

Claverdon laughed in turn. 'My idea when I came with you―' He broke off sharply. 'Helen Wargrave is here?'

'In that house you were watching.'

'Ah! You know Narani is there?'

'A prisoner of Melnikoff's! Yes? They seem at cross purposes.'

'They are. I'll tell you presently about that. Do you know what use that cursed Cossack proposes to make of Miss Wargrave?'

'I've heard a rumour―'

'Whilst I stood in that archway I heard Melnikoff explain the whole of his beastly intention, when these dirty fanatics have done their worst, she's to be made a symbol of the coining degradation of the white race— sort of exhibit in a Roman triumph. You've got to get her out of that house— and soon, Waldron. In three days―'

'Yes, I know that. There are as many mullahs as there are fleas in this place, with more coming, and it is easy to hear some things. Melnikoff is staking the manifestation of his Mahdi mainly for the priests. When it is through they will carry the fiery cross―'

'And the tribes will kindle like petrol. We've got to stop it at all costs.'

'But how? I came near to knifing Melnikoff in that archway. If only I had known who you were―'

'That wouldn't have done the trick. Melnikoff is the arch-plotter, but Rahman Ali is the key to the position. Even with the Cossack lying stark the faked manifestation would probably go forward under Ali's own direction. And once it is accomplished the damage is done. It one knew where Rahman Ali―'

'I know,' broke in the other. 'There's a house― sort of fort on a hill across the valley―'

'I saw it to-day.'

'He's there with a bodyguard of Melnikoff's. Hard to get at in more ways than one.'

'But it has got to be done. Half these mullahs will believe anything that serves the Faith. And once the thing is 'started―' He broke off sharply as some thought came to him.

'Allah!' he cried. 'I know a way; Rahman All is infatuated with Narani. He probably doesn't know she's here, at any rate that confounded Cossack won't have told him that he holds her a prisoner. If she sent a message that she was in danger, asking him to come to her help, nothing would hold the cockerel back. And if he came on his own, three resolute men could scoop him up―'

'Three?'

'Yes; Nima-Tashi is up there in the hills waiting for me. He would be a host in a job of that kind. There's a half-witted Russian there, too, but he would be no use.'

'But that woman— Narani? How are we to get at her?'

'Leave that to me. A blind man can blunder his way into any hole — particularly when he can see.' Claverdon, laughed shortly. 'Knowing where she hangs out is half the game, and if―' He broke off as a rumbling sound came through the night.

'That's Ringing Sands.'

'Yes. They're sounding every hour or two now. Melnikoff has the trick of them. And this business of the Imam is being well staged. Every time they ring, the mullahs mouth prayers, and their fervour grows.'

'Where is the place?'

'Three-quarters of a mile up the valley at the back of the village. I've located it; but haven't seen it. Neither has any of the crowd here. They regard it as a sort of Holy of Holies, and approach is utterly forbidden until the hour of manifestation.'

''Um! Another place that a blind man might excusably stumble on. But first things first. I'm going back to that house where I heard Melnikoff and Narani talking. You might follow at a discreet distance and hold a watching brief. If there is trouble your help may save the situation.'

'Yes.'

'Then I think we'll start at once. But first does Melnikoff lodge there?'

'No! He's at another house where the big gun among the mullahs— sort of cardinal hangs out. I suspect the two are working this business together.'

'Good! Then the field is fairly clear. I think we'll start at once.'

Waldron blew out the lamp, and opened the door. Claverdon stepped out into the moonlit street and began to shuffle on his way, his stick tapping noisily. When he was half-way to his destination the Ringing Sands spoke again, filling the. night with strange sounds. As the reverberation died away, from somewhere in the hills behind the village sounded a clear sonorous voice:

'La ilaha illa Allah! Allahu Akbar!'

He looked up at the stars, wondering if it were already midnight, and if this was the call to prayer which at the dead hour rings through the Moslem world. The heavens told him that yet that hour was not come, and as another voice close at hand, the voice of a man who stood like a statue on a house-top, echoed the cry, he muttered to himself:—

'Well staged, indeed! A little personal fervour will do no harm.'

He smiled to himself as in a voice that rang up the street, he cried. 'Allahu Akbar!' The voice on the hill sounded once more.

'Mahomed is the prophet of God!' And as the man on the house-top echoed it, Claverdon waited, listening to the kindling cry that had rung through the ages, wondering it again it was soon to set the wild word of the hills afire; then as the witnessing voices died away, he resumed his way.

It was not yet the full tide of night, but it was late, and his fear was that he might find those of the house where Narani was had retired to rest, as obviously most others in the village had. As he stumbled into the dark gateway, he gave once glance over his shoulder and saw that his friend was following at a discreet distance, then he went forward. As he did so, over his head he caught the faint glow which came from a sort of grating let in the wall, and which had explained to him how he had been able to overhear the conversation an hour before. His heart leapt at the sight. His task, he thought to himself, was to be easier than he could possibly have hoped.

After a glance backward and forward to make sure that he was not observed, he stooped, groped about until he found two or three small stones, and flung them at the grating. Having done so, he waited. There was no response to his signal. He tried again, twice, still with the same disappointing result. Then he felt the wall under the grating, thinking it might be possible to climb; but second thoughts decided him against that course, since it case of discovery blindness would be no excuse.

The frontal attack, it seemed, was the only possible one. He shuffled forward again, his stick tapping vigorously. The archway opened on a courtyard round which the house was built, and in his first glance round he caught sight of a door close at hand. He made his way towards it. his stick tapping the wall of the house, and when it touched the door he smote the latter heavily. Almost instantly it was flung open and a big hill-man confronted him.

'Who are thou that comes knocking here in the darkness?'

'The blind mullah of Gabare, whose servant has deserted him for an evil woman. May Allah shrivel the souls of both the lecherous ones.'

'But what wantest thou— blind one?' asked the other, peering into his face.

'A place to sleep until the morning,' he said boldly.

'There are the stalls where the horses are. Thou art welcome to―'

'Stalls!' he broke out truculently. 'Thou misbegotten son of a woman of shame! Is it thus one who comes to the Great Manifestation is treated? Am I a dog that I should be sent to rest among horses' filth? May Allah curse―'

'Nay! Nay! Curse not!' broke in the hill-man hurriedly. 'Step inside, holy one. That I named the stalk was no more than a jest—'

'A jest with evil words, which Allah loveth not— neither those who are covetous and turn away from almsgiving. If he shall curse―'

'In the name of the Compassionate, enter, holy one whom he hath afflicted.'

'Afflicted, aye! But for a means of greater glory. For when the Imam hath declared himself he will touch my eyes and give them the brightness of fire. That is already known, and when the miracle is wrought then those who have given alms―'

'Enter!' cried the man. 'I beseech thee enter.'

A strong band gripped Claverdon's arm and whilst its owner spoke mollifying words, almost dragged him into the house. He suffered himself to be conducted to a sleeping-shelf, where two other men lay in deep slumber.

'Brothers of thine are here,' the man whispered. 'In the morning they will look after thee and find that erring fool thy servant. Sleep well, O blind one.'

He stretched himself on the shelf and under cover of his glasses watched the man withdraw. A few minutes passed. The fire which warmed and lit the room crackled and shot up flames, and he looked cautiously round.

The two men in the room slept so deeply they might have been dead; but from somewhere came a sound or movement, possibly made by the man who had admitted him; and whom he guessed for the owner of the house. Half an hour, an hour went by, and save for a sound of snoring the whole house was still as death. The fire had burned very low, the light it gave was very dim, scarcely sufficient to show him the doorway as, slipping cautiously to his feet, he began to make his way towards it.

Reaching it, he removed his glasses and bestowing them in a safe place, stood listening. There was no sound anywhere save one that he guessed to be made by a gnawing mouse. Strive as he would to pierce the Stygian gloom, he could see nothing but remembering the position of the archway, and knowing that the room with the grating must be to the left, he began cautiously to grope his way in that direction. Two minutes later his hand missed the wall, encountering vacancy, and further investigation told him that he stood by the doorless entrance into a room. He took another step forward and peered in. The smell of smouldering wood stung his nostrils, but all that he could see was a single red spark glowing in the darkness.

He listened, and caught a sound of light breathing. There was, he told himself, some one asleep within the room. Who was it? Narani? He decided that it was, and taking a single step forward, he whispered into the blackness: 'Narani.'

There was no sort of response, and he tried again, whispering more loudly: 'Narani.'

This time the breathing checked; there was the sound of an abrupt movement, then came Narani's golden voice.

'Who is there?'

'S-s-s-h-h!' he cautioned. 'Speak low. It is I, Louis Claverdon.'

Again there was the sound of movement, a patter of light feet upon the floor, and the spark which had glowed in the darkness was obscured. But quite apart from, that he knew that Narani stood before him, close to him in that blackness. He knew it as well as if he had seen her, knew it by the tingling of  his nerves, the leap of his heart. Impulsively be stretched a hand. It touched a shoulder in the darkness, and the blood in his veins seemed turned to flame. He remembered her as he had first seen her in her house at Delhi— a woman to quicken any man's heartbeats; again be heard her cry of apprehension in the train after the attempt upon his life, remembered her anxiety for him on the house-boat, and recalled how she had returned to warn him, and how at the House of the Gong she had saved his life, and with crowding memories passion kindled within him.

'Narani!' he whispered. 'Narani!'

He felt her quiver under his touch, and then heard her whispering voice half choked with apprehension:—

'Oh! This is folly! to come here―'

'No!' he interrupted. 'You are here. In danger. I heard Melnikoff threatening you to-night!'

For the moment his purpose was forgotten. Concern for the woman was uppermost, her safety his supreme anxiety. 'You must not stay here. You must come away. My dear... my dear―'

His voice shook, emotion choked his utterance for a moment, and again he felt her quivering under his hand. She made a little impulsive movement, the responsive movement that woman makes to a lover's appeal, and his arms found her in the darkness and folded her to him.

'Oh-h!'  The word was almost a sob, and as he held her yielding form he knew that the emotion which was moving him was an overwhelming thing in her.

'You must come away, Narani,' he whispered passionately. 'Now! I will take you. Nima-Tashi is on the hill waiting; and I have a friend outside. Ivan Melnikoff means to revenge himself on you; but by morning you can be in safety, moving southward for the Border. And―'

'Ah! But I cannot go!' she whispered. 'There are things to be done first! You do not know. I am pledged to defeat Ivan Melnikoff's purpose and so revenge a brother who is dead―'

'I know,' he interrupted. 'I know. But the Red Cossack is stronger than you.'

'No!' She spoke sharply. 'I am not so helpless as I seem. I have but to appeal to Rahman Ali, and Ivan Melnikoff dare not hurt a hair of my head lest his purpose should be frustrated.'

He knew that as well as she did. Entering that house he had meant to exploit that very possibility, but now in his extreme concern for her he saw not the possibilities of serving his own end but rather the peril in which such an appeal must involve her.

'I know!' he whispered, 'I know! But―'

'And there is another reason. Somewhere in the house there is an English girl―'

'Helen Wargrave?'

'Yes. I have spoken to her for four minutes. She is young, and threatened by a desperate fate. I promised that I would save her; and she believed me. I can do no other than fulfil my promise, and if I go away now―'

'But how can you save her? You are a prisoner yourself.'

'If I send to Rahman Ali he will come. If I promise him―'

'God! You must not do that. It would be monstrous. Such sacrifice is not asked of anyone. No one has the right to expect it. You must not do it. Do you hear? You must not.'

His voice shook as he made the protest, and almost unconsciously he crushed her in his arms. Narani laughed softly.

'There are some promises one would rather die than keep. A woman fights with a woman's weapons— as Nima-Tashi would know. I could send a token to Rahman Ali that would bring him hot-foot to my deliverance. If he knew that I was in durance he would kill Ivan Melnikoff out of hand.'

'I shall do that myself,' said Claverdon tensely.

'But there are other things first,' said Narani with a deep conviction that told him she was not to be deflected from the course she had set herself.  'It is not enough that Ivan Melnikoff should die. Before that he must see the defeat of his hopes— the frustration of a purpose for which, as I know, he has laboured for three long years. That is why I have worked with Rahman Ali, encouraged him, suffered his vile attentions— for that one thing, that before Ivan Melnikoff dies he may know that he has utterly failed.'

'But if your purpose should go awry?' he whispered in vehement protest.

'I will not! If I send the token with a message, Rahman Ali would come to me through flood and flame. He would die to save me— sacrifice a kingdom―'

'Who would not?' said Claverdon passionately. 'I myself―' He broke off, and then whispered her name: 'Narani!'

For the first time his lips sought hers, and for a moment the two were speechless in an ecstasy that lost nothing of its rapture from the consciousness of the peril which environed them. Then after a minute he spoke again.

'There is a way. It was in my mind when I entered this house to look for you. You shall give me the token and message for Rahman Ali. That he will come I am sure, but he will never reach you. I shall see to that. If he did it might be the end of all things for yourself as well as Ivan Melnikoff. The latter can be defeated another way, and that is by getting hold of Rahman Ali. That would prevent the hocus-pocus of the manifestation of the Imam Medi, and discredit the Cossack utterly. And these fanatical mullahs would see to the rest. Probably they would turn on him in revenge―'

'But he would not know that I was the cause of his undoing, and I want him to know that.'

'I promise you that he shall know―'

He broke off at a slight sound somewhere 'outside the room. Standing there, with his arms about Narani, he listened tensely. The sound came again.

'Some one is moving in the house,' he whispered in her very ear.

'Yes.'

The sound resolved itself into padded footstep, as if one were walking in felt slippers, and a second later he heard Narani give a little gasp.

'The man comes this way. He brings a lamp.'

Claverdon turned swiftly at her whispered words. Beyond the doorway was a faint glow of fight, the sound of the padded step was drawing nearer. He knew that if the unseen man came to the door there was no hope of his evading discovery, and he acted swiftly.

'The token for Rahman Ali? You have it? Yes?... Give it me.'

She moved her arms, from about him, there was a further movement, then her hand found his, and thrust a ring into it.

'That will bring―'

The light was much nearer. Its glow showed him Narani's face, the beautiful eyes aflame with apprehension. It also revealed the barrenness of the room. There was no hiding-place worth the name in its four walls; and those nearing footsteps told him that discovery was imminent. He spoke in a swift urgent whisper.

'Go to your place. Lie down. Pretend to sleep. Maybe he will not enter the room. Do not interfere in any case.'

She slid from his arms and moved away noiselessly. He slipped the ring on a finger, then took a couple of quick steps which brought him against the wall, out of eyeshot of anyone outside the doorway, then, scarcely breathing, he waited for what was to follow. The footsteps ceased outside the doorway, and the light of the lantern carried by the unknown lit up the bare interior of the room dimly, showing Narani apparently deep in slumber. For one moment there was no sound at all, and he had a hope that the newcomer having seen Narani was safe was about to retire the way that he had come. Then there came a sound which made his heart leap— the sound of a forward step— and a second later the man was in the room, with the lantern lifted, looking round. Claverdon glimpsed his face and recognised it for that of the hill-man who had admitted him to the house. The man saw him in the same moment,,- and gave a chuckling laugh.

'Ho! ho! sightless one! Thine eyes are not blind to beauty, then?'

He chuckled again. 'But perhaps they are not so dim as thou wouldst have one believe — blind mullah of Gabare, if mullah thou art! But that shall be proved.'

The man grinned, and took a step backward toward the doorway; and in that moment Claverdon acted, leaped on him tigerishly. He caught the man by the throat, preventing him from crying out, and as the fellow dropped the lantern, they wrestled together desperately. The lantern being extinguished by the fall they fought in darkness, Claverdon in desperate silence, the hill-man, unable to cry out and already choking, in an endeavour to make as much noise as possible.

They fell over and over they rolled on the floor, Claverdon with ears straining for sounds that would tell him that the desperate gamble was lost to him; then the hill-man gave one tremendous heave, following that all his limbs relaxed and he lay supine. The Englishman, fearing the man might be foxing, kept his stranglehold for a moment or two, all the while acutely conscious of sounds of movement in the house. Then out of the darkness of the room behind came a tremulous whisper—

'Oh, my beloved ? '

'Safe!' he answered. 'But there are others coming. I must go. You know nothing of this carrion, remember.'

There were voices, footsteps, as he slid towards the door, which was held by a wooden bar. As he dropped the latter the voices grew suddenly louder, and there was the noise of hurrying steps.

'Not here!' sounded a man's tones, proving; that a search was being made. Opening the door only sufficiently to allow egress, he slipped out into the courtyard, pulling the door swiftly behind him. The moon had dipped behind the hills and the yard was full of shadows.

For a moment he stood to make sure that he was not observed, and as he waited heard feet hurry by on the other side of the door. There followed a startled shout, proclaiming the discovery of the man whom he had strangled, and knowing that he had little time he ran towards the archway. He almost collided with a figure lurking there, and guessed rather than recognised his friend.

'Quick, Waldron! For the Lord's sake!'

Together they ran through the archway and down the twisting street. At the last turn they slackened to listen, and heard voices shouting. Then, since there was none to remark how a blind man could run, they fled on between the echoing walls.

Chapter 15

THEY REACHED Waldron's lodging without being followed, and Claverdon rapidly explained the situation he had left behind him. Then he produced the ring.

'If Narani is right this will bring Rahman Ali from his eerie on swift wings.'

'But it has to be delivered!'

'I myself shall do that, and have Nima Tashi waiting to seize him before he can reach the village.'

'But if he should not be alone?'

'He will be! He is a lover―' He broke off. A troubled light came in his eyes as some thought occurred to him; then be added grimly, 'Nima has a rifle. He is a marksman, and in so great a matter as this what matters a man's life, when that life is already forfeit? If I have to shoot Rahman Ali like a sitting partridge I will prevent this manifestation, which would drench the hills in blood! It is no time for small scruples.'

'No!'

'I must go to Nima at once. He will be growing anxious, and may possibly do some reckless thing. If he came down here― And Melnikoff saw him it might frustrate all that we purpose.'

'Yes.'

'You will remain here. I shall not come to the village again before to-morrow night, and by them Rahman Ali will be in my hands or dead. But you must watch over Narani, who in turn is watching over Helen Wargrave.'

He fell silent for a moment, then blurted to his friend, 'Narani is more to me than my own life, Waldron.'

'Phew!' Waldron whistled softly, but making no comment on the confession asked for details of the plan proposed.

'I shall not act until to-morrow night, possibly not before the small hours of the morning. That will leave Melnikoff no time to search, or to alter his arrangements, and may possibly leave him in ignorance of the defeat of his plans until the very instant that he thinks will be the moment for their consummation.'

'That is the hour of dawn, when the muezzins call to prayer. The mullahs, I have heard, are to gather at the Gate of Ringing Sands in the night.'

'So much the better.... Now I must go. It will take me two hours or most of it to get to Nima-Tashi.'

He looked round. 'I left my staff. in that house. I may not need another one before I get to the hills, but if I should meet anyone―'

'I will get one,' interrupted Waldron, and passed out of doors. It was a little time before he returned, bringing a new cut stick. 'The clamour up the street had died down. A dead man in these hills is really a small matter. I think you may go without discovery. All the place seems to be sleeping, and the moon is low behind the hills.'

'Good. I will, go at once.' He took the staff, and moving towards the door, opened it. He stood for a moment looking out on the silent street and on the hills thrusting their massive outlines into the skies, then he stepped forth.

'Good luck, Claverdon,' said Waldron softly.

'Same to you,' he replied with a nod, and then stepped into the street. At the place where it turned he looked back, and seeing his friend watching him, waved his staff. In that very instant a man slipped from a doorway, and ran up the street— a man who, from the way he ran, looking backward now and again over his shoulder, was evidently afraid of pursuit. He watched for a moment with, a disturbed look on his face. Who was the fellow—a watcher? a spy? or a fugitive?

He had no means of answering the question his mind asked; and after watching the man until he disappeared, he resumed his way. The moon sank lower, and as darkness settled on the hills he lost the track, and as he did not find it again for a considerable time it was -well towards morning before he reached the neighbourhood of the camp. Walking towards it he stumbled on the stone, and a second later heard the click of a cocked rifle.

'Who comes?' challenged the Tibetan's voice.

'It is I, Nima. You can put down the rifle.'

He moved forward, and as he reached the fire looked round, 'The witless Russian? Where is he?'

'Sheitan take the madman!' growled the Tibetan. 'He fled hours ago, skipping down the mountain-side like a goat before I could hinder him. Curses on the fool. I hope he has a broken neck.'

Claverdon remembered suddenly the man who had run up the street in the village as he left it, and thought to himself that here was the explanation.

'No matter,' be said. 'His going may be a riddance. His presence would have proved a hindrance on a quick run for the border.'

'Ho-ho! We are to run, then?'

'Not yet, and when we go we shall not go empty-handed.'

'The woman is found, then? We take her―'

'And Rahman Ali, If the gods are kind.'

He began to explain the situation to the Tibetan, and whilst he did so saw the tops of the high hills kindle with day, though all about them was a shadow. From the direction of the village a chill wind began to blow which made him creep closer to the fire.

'The dawn wind,' said Nima-Tashi. 'A new day.'

'Yes,' he answered and, as he sat silent for a moment, heard from far away the rumbling sound which he had heard on the previous night, and commented, 'Ringing Sands! You hear them, Nima?'

'Aye! There is strange magic somewhere to make a din―' He stopped suddenly.

'Hark!' The last word came whisperingly, and Claverdon glanced at him sharply. Then on his ears broke the sound of hoofs.

'Someone goes along the track,' whispered the Tibetan. 'Who?'

He made a move as if to go and investigate, but Claverdon checked him. 'No, Nima. Wait. Whoever is there will pass and we shall remain undiscovered.'

The Tibetan subsided, but picked up his rifle and sat with it cocked across his knees. The sounds grew clearer as the traveller or travellers approached the point which led to toe camping-ground; then a quite startling thing happened. Somewhere across the valley sounded a muezzin's cry to the morning prayer.

'Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!'

The words were faintly born on the wind of morning, and scarcely had the sound reached them when, from the direction of the track, they were repeated by a strong, rolling voice:— 'Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!'

'Priests!' whispered Nima-Tashi with a gesture of contempt. 'Doubtless they journey to this play of Rahman All and the Red Cossack.'

Claverdon nodded assent. He had no doubt that the early travellers were thus explained, and as he crouched by the fire, listening to the sound of their ponies' feet, he found himself wondering how many pilgrims of the most fanatical faith on earth were journeying at that moment towards this cup of the hills, in the expectation of the miracle of the morrow.

Presently the sounds of their going died away, and he began to nod. Without knowing it, he drifted into dreamless sleep from which three hours later he was awakened by his companion.

'My friend, it is time to breakfast. And I remember that in the dark thou saidst we were to cross the valley and climb to that eagle's eerie over there before night. If that be so, 'tis time we took the road.'

'Yes,' answered Claverdon. 'You are right.'

He rose and stretched himself, and whilst the Tibetan prepared a morning meal he walked to the place from which on the previous day he had examined the village. The sun was shining and in the broad light he could see the place clearly. There seemed to be so much coming and going on the outskirts, whilst in the valley itself were at least a dozen travellers making for the village. He watched them for a little while, thinking to himself that each newcomer was an added difficulty in the way of his purpose; then gave his attention to the turreted dwelling get on the cliff across the valley. If Waldron were not mistaken, Rahman Ali was there; and come what might, by nightfall he most somehow reach the place and obtain an interview with, that wild bird of the hills.

Looking across the valley, noting the unscaleable cliffs on which the turreted house was set, the difficulty of the task before him suddenly loomed enormous. It would be no light work to climb to that height, and even when the place was reached there might be new obstacles yet more formidable than those of nature. Waldron had said that Rahman Ali was watched over by a bodyguard of the Cossacks. In that case to get in touch with him might prove an almost insuperable task.

But, he told himself, Rahman Ali was no prisoner. He would be free to come and go; and in view of what was to take place on the morrow, it was scarcely likely that a priest would be forbidden his presence. And there was Narani's talisman. He glanced down at it as it reposed upon his finger— a ring of beaten gold with a great turquoise-stone— a barbaric thing that, as he guessed, had been the gift of Rahman Ali itself. Possibly it represented an S.O.S., which Rahman Ali understood, or again it might be no more than a warrant that the messenger had come from Narani. In that case he would have to explain; and he found himself wondering what would happen should Rahman Ali ignore the summons or be prevented from responding to it by that Cossack guard.

Those contingencies troubled him considerably, but in the end he dismissed them with a shrug of his shoulders. 'Bridges that may not have to be crossed,' he muttered, and considered the situation of the house across the valley anew. There must be some way up there, of course. But if the way lay through the village, then there would be new risks to be taken, for Ivan Melnikoff was a sharp-eyed man, and was no doubt primed with information as to the man who accompanied the Englishman. Also, Nima was a big man— not to be hidden under a bushel— a man of girth and height that were in themselves notable, and which might well prove fatal to their enterprise if the Red Cossack with the information he had received, meeting them, should set eyes upon him. That must not be. Some other way than the ordinary way through the village— if that were the way— must be found.

He studied the cliff more closely, following the rocky escarpment in the opposite direction of the village, until it merged itself into a wood, set on the steep slope of the hill, of which the escarpment was part. Probably there was a way of ascent there in the wood. And the latter would be useful. There the ponies could lie hidden until his purpose was accomplished. At any rate, it was worth trying.

He looked at the ring again. To send that S.O.S. in order to lure the donor to his destruction was a dreadful thing, and to use Narani in such a fashion as to make her seem a traitor, even in a barbarian's eyes, went heavily against the grain wit him. But there was no choice. He must exploit the best in Rahman Ah to his undoing.

'It is seething the kid in its mother's milk,' he muttered to himself, unconscious of Nima-Tashi's approach.

'But what if there were no kid to seethe?' asked the Tibetan in laughing ignorance of the thought in Claverdon's mind.

'Exactly! That must be thought of Nima... I will breakfast and we will start. But in the meantime a search those hills across there for any sign of a path.'

He went back to the fire, and a quarter of an hour later had just finished eating when his companion came to him beaming.

'There is a track,' he announced. 'It goes up through the trees. I have seen a man come down that way. But it will be necessary for us to get down into the plain and cross the open to reach it.'

'What matter? We must take some risks, Nima.'

'Aye,' laughed the Tibetan. 'As when one steals a horse or weds a woman.'

They started on their journey and presently finding a dry watercourse, followed it until they reached the valley at a distance of at least six miles. Then in the early afternoon they crossed the open, and reaching the shelter of the woods began to climb towards the house on the escarpment. It was almost dusk when the ascent was accomplished, and they found themselves on a rocky plateau with their destination less than a mile away.

In a fever of anxiety Claverdon stared at the place. If by any chance Rahman Ali had removed himself here was a day wasted, with the chance of succeeding in this project heavily jeopardised. They found a place encircled by great rocks, where sparse grass grew, and which for a man of the hills would be easy to recognise, and there they tethered the ponies. With dusk deepening round them they moved over the rocky plain, keeping as far as possible in cover, and with the first stars in the sky lay full length on the ground considering the shadowy outline of the building in the foreground. It was a fort of sorts, and in that solitary place, under the stars, was utterly silent and desolate as death.

Nima-Tashi, after a few minutes' survey, whispered his conviction.

'A place of ghosts! None but the dead live there.'

But scarcely had he spoken when the lie was given to his words. There was the sound of creaking hinges, of voices, and a man issuing from the place begun to walk with a great clatter among the stones in the direction that, as Claverdon guessed, led towards the village.

'A noisy ghost, Nima!'

'Aye! I was wrong, seemingly.'

They waited until the noise of the man's steps on the « tones died away, and then followed a little way in his wake to make sure of the direction of the oath. Having ascertained that it was, as he suspected, a quick way to the village, Claverdon gave instruction to his companion.

'Wait somewhere down there, Nima. Not too far away. Rahman Ali and I shall doubtless come that way. When you hear us, get ready, for we must take him without a cry, you understand.'

'He shall not even bleat,' answered Nima. 'Then go! But if I come not by midnight, take the ponies, hurry to the village and find Narani and the girl who was stolen. They are in a house with an arched entrance half-way up the street on the right, a house which Waldron Sahib in the guise of a mullah watches. Get them away, and if you find Waldron tell him I have failed.'

'But that must not be,' answered the Tibetan quickly.

'I like not such talk. I will accompany thee to that place there.'

'No!' Claverdon's voice was peremptory. 'Go! Wait at a convenient place for an ambuscade, and be ready for my coming with Rahman Ali.'

The Tibetan grumbled mutinously, but walked off in the darkness, and when he was well away Claverdon turned to the fort, and walking quickly soon came to the wooden gate. He rapped on it with his staff, and from within there came a noise of hurrying feet. A moment later the door was flung open, and by the light of a brazier near by he caught sight of a man who stared forth at him with fierce eyes measuringly.

'What want you, mullah?' demanded the fellow brusquely, after a brief, inspection.

'Rahman Ali,' replied Claverdon as brusquely. 'Take me to him. I have a message for his ears.'

'Then thou must take it elsewhere. His ears are not here,' grinned the man. 'This very evening he carried them away to Ringing Sands.'

The words were like some knell of doom in Claverdon's hearing. He stared at the man through his goggles in utter consternation.

'To Ringing Sands!' he half whispered, his face in the light from the brazier drawn and hard.

'Aye! To Ringing Sands,' answered the man. 'Where the ghostly nagaras beat!'

Not for a moment did Claverdon doubt the man's statement. There was truth in his tones and in his grinning face, and clearly he was enjoying the jest of the caller's discomfiture.

'Went he alone?' asked Claverdon quickly.

'Nay! One so great rides not alone. With him went six men to guard his veiled face.'

'Then I must hurry back,' exclaimed Claverdon, and sick at heart turned away.

He heard the door creak behind him, and as it crashed, began to run. With Rahman Ali already at Ringing Sands it seemed to him that all was already lost. There could be little hope of winning to his presence, but he must do what he could, and that was God knew how little.

Stumblingly, a man utterly desperate, he ran across the stony plain, visioning a dozen things in turn— the success of Melnikoff's infernal hocus-pocus, the march of the fierce hill-men in the holy war, the fanatical Border aflame,  the plains kindling to the fierce flame of faith fanned by a tremendous miracle in which they would find belief so easy, and— a small thing in the general tumult— a woman whom he loved tossed to and fro as the spoil of lecherous men.

He set his jaw grimly at the thought, and as he ran considered new plans.

The thing must not be. If there was no other way there was the solution of flying bullets. The manifestation would be public, and as the new Imam Medi stood before the gaze of the entranced mullahs, no doubt with Melnikoff, stage-managing, close at hand, the pair could be picked off by rifle fire. For the man or the men who did it there could be no hope at all. The fierce fanatical mullahs would tear them in pieces like wolves. But in the confusion Waldron could escape with Narani and that girl Helen Wargrave.

A stone, shooting from his hurrying feet, flung him headlong, putting a term to these particular thoughts, and made him more careful of his going. But he still ran, though now with caution. The track began to go downward, the stones were more frequent; and there were boulders round which it twisted. He was forced to reduce his pace to a walk, and at a turn in the track, far below caught a glow of fires on the outskirts of the village.

The camp fires of priests come to the great manifestation, he told himself, and swung on. Then in a place where the path narrowed between great rocks he caught sight of a crouching form.

'Nima?' he whispered breathlessly.

'Aye!' said the Tibetan, straightening himself. 'But where's the eagle we were to snare?'

'Heaven knows! Somewhere by the sounding sands. He left that place back there this evening. And I must find him at all costs. Go back and bring the ponies this way. I will send Waldron Sahib to meet thee at the foot of this hill. He will have instructions and maybe we shall have to shoot instead of trail that eagle you speak of.'

'So!' Nima-Tashi ejaculated; and then whistled softly. 'And the woman, Narani?'

'She must be got from the hell which the shot that kills Rahman Ali will let loose in this infernal place. But that will lie with Waldron Sahib.'

'And thyself, my friend?' Claverdon laughed hardly. I shall be beyond care by the time you make the hills with Narani and the English girl. But I must away. God knows the Cossack may have moved his plans forward. Delay not, Nima, but hurry and look for Waldron Sahib at the foot of this cliff.'

He began to hasten on the downward way. Drifting wood-smoke stung his nostrils as he went down the hill, and once there came to him the odour of roasting flesh. Above the valley the stars, burning with hard, brilliant flame, lifted themselves above the peaks. At the foot of the hills the camp-fire glowed softly, or the names leaping up outlined the dark figures of men busy about them. There were many of these fires― a score at least; and to his vision they were like the camp-fires of an army. He saw the red brands of them scattered through the hills to kindle other fires— the fanatical men about them being bearers of the fiery cross, and the precursors of red ruin and death.

'God!' he whispered to himself. 'God ...'

The fires became suddenly clearer, and as the path reached the valley he adjusted his goggles and moderated his pace, once more tapping his way with, his stick! As he neared the fires he steered a course around them and presently found himself at the edge of a village. At the very end of the street a door opened and a man came out, colliding sharply against him.

'Curses on thee for a clumsy mule!' cried Claverdon raspingly, as by the light from the open door he saw the man staring at him wonderingly. 'Why did Allah give such a misbegotten son of a shameful woman eyes, if thou canst not use them? Could I see— I would beat thee with my staff.'

The man still stared at him curiously, and he saw that like himself the fellow wore a Dard head-dress. As he noted the fact there was a stir of trepidation at his heart; then the man broke out in amazement.

'Allah! Are there two blind mullahs from Dardistan?'

Suddenly aware that he had reached an awkward corner, Claverdon answered sharply.

'Nay, two there were. Myself and my brother, who was the blind mullah of Gabare. But he lies dead across the hills, where I found him on my way here. He was yet living when we met, and able to tell the story how his servant had robbed him and left him to wander in the passes. Also he was able to whisper the name of that servant— whom the fires of Gehenna shall blister— and for that robber I search―'

So far he got when the man turned swiftly on his heel and with every sign of fear fled up the dark street. Claverdon in utter amazement watched him go, then suddenly the truth dawned on him— that running man was the treacherous servant of the blind one of Gabare!

He laughed silently to himself, and wiped the sweat from, his brow.

'Krishna!' he commented softly. 'What a pin-head of a world!'

Then, assured that he had nothing to fear from the fugitive, whose guilty conscience would lead him to give himself as wide a berth as possible, he resumed his way, and presently came to the house of his friend. Voices came to him from within and he hesitated before rapping upon the door, listening.

He could not distinguish the words nor guess the identity of the speakers, but his need of speech with Waldron was urgent, and drove him to take a chance. With his staff he rapped heavily upon the door, and as he still waited there reached him a sound of scurrying feet. Then after a brief interval the door opened and against the dim light of a native lamp he saw Waldron peering forth at him. He himself looked beyond the pseudo-mullah and noted that the bare room behind him was empty. Then he spoke in a whisper.

'Wal―'

'Come in! Come in!' whispered Waldron back in sudden excitement. 'There is grave news! Dear God, how I have prayed for your coming and how I have feared you would come too late!'

And as he stepped aside, Claverdon entered and heard the other close and bar the door behind him.

Chapter 16

'WHAT IS IT?' asked Claverdon. 'You said there was grave news.'

'The very gravest. Rahman Ali is at The Gate of Ringing Sands; Melnikoff has moved forward the hour of the unveiling of his infernal Mahdi. It is to be at midnight when the muezzins call the faithful to prayer, and not at sunrise.'

'Midnight!' Claverdon's voice betrayed his consternation. For a second or two he stood there with the tide of despair surging in his heart, visioning terrible things. Then Waldron's voice arrested his attention anew.

'Yes. That has apparently been decided upon to-day, or that condemned Cossack had it up his sleeve all the time. To-day, as you may remember, is Thursday, and to-morrow is Holy Friday, and as to-day becomes to-morrow . the Imam Medi is to make his manifestation―'

'And the Avalanche let loose―'

'Unless we can peg it in place. All the mullahs are warned and in three hours or so will be gathering at The Gate―'

'Three hours! It might as well be three seconds!'

'It's short enough time in which to save a tremendous situation; but it's all the time we have in which to frustrate Melnikoff's damnable scheme. The fellow is diabolically clever. I've had a talk with rue or two mullahs. It seems certain that the train insurrection runs right through the Hills, and once the manifestation is made the fanatics will hurry to their village to fire the train— and the jehad— a really big thing will be loosed.'

He broke off and stared at the other with troubled eyes, then cried in a desperate whisper:

'In God's name what's to be done, Claverdon?'

Louis Claverdon stood in thought a moment, then he laughed harshly. 'Desperate diseases, desperate remedies. I guess I must go to Ringing Sands— now.'

'But you'll never get through. The place is forbidden until the sacred hour.'

'A blind man can stumble into places where others may not go. Anyway, there's only one other chance if I fail and you must provide for that.'

'What―'

'Nima-Tashi will be bringing the ponies down the path that leads from that place on the hill. You must go wait for him, explain to him the situation and' put him secretly in some place where he will be well in rifle-range of The Gate. Tell him my instructions are that the moment Rahman Ali appears he is to shoot him, and also to get the Cossack―'

'But, man, he'll be torn to little shreds! You know these mullahs―'

'I know, Nima. He is a man of resource. Nobody will be expecting any such tragedy to happen. The crowd will be dumbfounded— and if he moves quickly and quietly after firing he will not be found. After the first paralysing shock pandemonium will break loose, and the confusion, with nobody to direct affairs, will be great. Also, however, the stake of Ringing Sands may be lighted, it will be dark in the auditorium, and in the hullabaloo and the blackness a brisk man will get clear away... All this if I should fail, of course.'

'But how shall we know―'

'If I am not back soon,' was the reply, given with a grim laugh, 'you will know beyond doubt.'

Waldron nodded. 'It's a pretty desperate hazard, Claverdon. Of course I'll go and meet Nima and plant him in position. I have my own anxieties, but the big thing comes first. Helen Wargrave is here.'

'Ah! I heard someone talking. I'd forgotten.' His eyes went to the primitive ladder, which led to the upper room, as he spoke, and there was a question in his eyes. The other nodded.

'Yes! That woman— Narani— got her out of that house an hour ago. There was a guard— a Russian— but Narani cajoled him by her woman's art, and Miss Wargrave slipped out. I was watching the house, and saw her, and brought her here, and―'

'Narani? What happened to her?' asked Claverdon sharply.

'God knows! ' She was to have followed, but never come. Of course she knows nothing about this house.'

'No!' Claverdon's voice was grim. 'And she may not have meant to follow. She may be waiting for Rahman Ali— or, well, one can't pass through a barred door.'

He stood for a moment silent in the stress of fierce emotion, then he said harshly, 'I must go, Waldron.... Where is this d―d gate?'

'Straight up through the village, less than a mile away. The valley narrows there, and the place is hidden in a half circle of fantastic rocks. I saw it through glasses from the opposite hill to-day. There's a white slope quite different from anything else about it, which is the sand, I fancy. At the foot of it there's some sort of chorten or mausoleum— tomb of some Moslem saint, I expect; and at the side to the right in the cliff which flanks it, a carved gateway leading, from the look of things, to a cave of some sort. But you can't go wrong, for there's a fire at the entrance; and there'll be others presently, judging from the pyres which have been made about this place.'

Claverdon adjusted his spectacles and was turning towards the door when Waldron spoke again, in a voice that, strive as he would, he could not keep steady.

'You're going to a tight corner, old man... if... if...'

'If I shouldn't win out, hey? Well— Kismet! But if this thing is stopped, as it will be if Nima shoots straight―' He interrupted himself. 'However, it mayn't come to that. I've an idea that I shall take Rahman Ali down through the passes, yet, and to pluck him out of these hills in a stupendous hour will be a feather worth wearing.'

He waved a hand, laughed a little grimly, and opening the door passed into the dark street.

There were people moving there, the clatter of excited voices, hoarse whispers, occasional ecstatic cries, and it was clear to him that the place was seething with excitement. True to his part as a blind man he tapped his way along, walking, as it seemed, by touch, but very watchful, and only once did he blunder into anyone, and that of deliberate intent when the voice of a man talking to two others reached him. The voice, though it was speaking in some native dialect, had a familiar ring, and a moment later he knew that he had not mistaken the identity of the owner.

'Curses on―'

'Curse not the sightless,' he said sternly. 'One whom Allah hath afflicted for the manifestation of His greater glory should receive compassion.'

'Oh! It is thee, blind one of Gabare. A thousand pardons. I thought it was some villager drunk with the forbidden wine.... The hour of vision draws nigh for thee!'

'Aye, if God— to whom be praise!— so will the miracle of light.'

'God is the light of the Heavens and the Earth,' broke in a sonorous voice. 'His light is like a niche in which is a lamp— the lamp encased in glass— the glass as it were a glittering star... It is light upon light. God guides whom He will to His light―'

'True,' replied Claverdon, recognising the quotation from the Koran, and continued in its spirit. 'And if one has that greater light, the light that greets the eyes is nothing. Yet after twelve years of darkness the desire of the lesser thing is not dead.

'And I go to pray Allah the Compassionate, the Merciful, that this night the miracle may be wrought by His Holy One, that my dead eyes may see the rising of his glistening star as it beams in the darkness.'

'Allah, be merciful to thee, brother!' boomed the fanatic.

'He will! He will! The assurance is in my bones,' answered Claverdon in a voice of intense conviction, and again began to shuffle and tap his way up the rambling street.

His heart was leaping with new hope as he went. The fact of Melnikoff's presence in the village was a point to him in the desperate game he was playing. It meant that at least one bar to his entrance to The Gate was down, and as the street tailed out into a stony track running up the valley, with the last house well behind him, he removed his goggles, dropped his shuffle, and stalked forward with swinging stride.

The moon was not yet risen, and he had no light save the stars; but the track was not difficult to follow, and presently he had other things to help him on his desperate way.

Out of the darkness ahead came a sudden startling noise— at first a mere murmur like, the rustle of dry leaves in a gentle wind, but which quickly grew in volume until its pulsations were like the rolling of far-away drums or the thunder of cannon softened by great distance. He listened intently, and through the rumble caught faintly other sounds like the soft wailing of an Aeolian harp. The sound came down the valley, a weird and ghostly thing, and in the darkness of that desolate gut of the hills, utterly startling. It continued for some minutes, mounting in crescendo until the sound of rolling drums swamped the minor sounds, filling all the valley and. echoing eerily among the peaks. Then gradually it died away, and in the utter stillness that supervened, from one of the crags, where he could not see, sounded a voice of rich quality and timbre beating the undying witness of Islam.

'La ilaha illa Allah! Allahu Akbar!'

The cry was taken up from all the points of the compass, proving that many were waiting and watching for the new dawn of Islam, and as the last, faint and faraway, died like a distant bugle in the night, he hurried forward, and passing a turn in the track he saw ahead of him something that glowed like a ruddy star. His heart leaped at the sight.

'The fire!' he whispered to himself, and whilst he did not slacken his pace he moved more cautiously, watching the rocks and the shadowy, scarped and serrated hillsides about him. Three hundred yards away he baited, and from behind a screen of rocks examined what lay ahead. Against the stars he made out the outlines of a rocky hill, below. which was a long white, slope that he might have mistaken for snow, but which from his friend's description he guessed was the sand-slope from which issued the mysterious sounds to which he had listened so recently. The rocks above and about the slope were black against its whiteness, seen dimly by the starlight, and the fire which leaped with cheerful flames, lighting a considerable space in the amphitheatre of rocks, was to the right.

After the first glance at the sand slope his eyes went to the fire and glued themselves on the black cliff behind it. The leaping flames lit up the cliff -face, and showed him a patch of darkness almost immediately behind the fire. He divined easily enough that there was an' opening in the cliff there — and that there stood The Gate, through which he must pass to reach Rahman Ali.

Steadily he searched the foreground, looking for obstacles in his way. but found none. A little to the right of the. fire he saw the tomb of which Waldron had spoken— the last resting-place of some fierce saint; but living man he saw not. Apparently the fire was untended. The Gate unguarded―

But such luck was too stupendous to be trusted; and burning with impatience though he was he still continued to survey the place minutely. At last, he saw what he was looking for. In the very shadow of the Gateway itself, the firelight gleamed on something resting against the rock— the barrel of a rifle. Looking farther, near the rifle, he saw a squatting form, back to the rock, knees cocked high, with the turbaned bead resting-on the knees— the guard, a solitary man as he judged, and asleep.

Of all the extraordinary things in front of him that solitary man seemed to him the most extraordinary. Where he would have expected to find at least a considerable guard, there was but a single sentinel; and for a moment his heart misgave him. If after all Rahman Ali were not in this place after all?... He was swept by apprehensive fear at the thought, and as he visioned the possibilities of such a situation had a distraught feeling.

Then he checked the emotion of fear. There was but one guard there at the Gate, but within there might be many; and in any case, with the place forbidden to all interlopers, Melnikoff might well have thought one guard sufficient. He considered the slumbering man again, took careful note of the ground between the sleeper and himself; then looked round on the shadowy hills for any sign of the men who had borne witness to the truth of Islam in this strange and solitary place. He saw none of them. The ground between him and the Gateway, save for that slumbering guard, remained empty of life, and after a little time, conscious of the need for haste, he regained his goggles, and, once more with shuffling steps, moved forward, feeling his way with his staff, for the benefit of any watchful eyes, but at the same time exercising extreme caution that he might make no noise that would waken the sleeper. Thrice, again to support his pose of blindness, he stumbled but noiselessly; arid in a very short while had reached some scattered rocks within twenty yards of the unwatchful sentinel.

He halted again like a man uncertain of his way, feeling about with his staff, while he took stock of the sleeper, and examined the mysterious Gate. In the light of the fire he could see the fellow quite clearly, and that he was indeed in a heavy slumber was beyond question. At his side was a skin that doubtless contained the sweet wine of Hunza or the rice wine from across the Chinese border, and the consumption of which might explain his profound somnolence.

Behind him the Gateway loomed far larger than it had appeared at a distance; being, indeed, dwarfed by the height of the cliff in which it was set. It yawned forbidding, a mouth of mystery, holding within itself he knew not what; but as he was sure, a place of peril for any who should enter it without proper authority. After staring at it a little while, with a glance round the amphitheatre of rocks, and another for the drunken guard, he moved forward again, with the slow, halting, uncertain step of the sightless, an explanation of his last plight ready to his tongue should he be challenged. He was, however, spared that ordeal. As he drew level the droning snore of the guard brought reassurance, and he slipped past him into the cavernous gateway, and when well within the shadow he looked back. The sleeping man snored one. The ground in front of the cavern remained empty, and a spreading glow above the high hills told him that the moon was rising and would presently bathe all this wild world of the hills in silver light. He marked these things; then, turning abruptly, began to enter the cave.

Within two minutes he was in black darkness, unable to see his hands before him, and only able to proceed safely by carefully feeling the wall of the cave, which at that point was scarcely of sufficient width to allow the passing of two men walking abreast. But after a little time it began to widen, and a cool air met him, proving to him that there was another entrance. Then came an abrupt double turn and he was aware of a swinging lamp, which lit up a rocky  chamber in the heart of the hill. He suspected that it was partly natural, partly of human workmanship, but had little time to consider that, for as a single tap of his staff echoed through the chamber he became aware of a solitary man, who rose suddenly to his feet, revealing a small brazier, before which he had been seated. From head to foot the man was covered in a robe of sheening silk of vivid green, and from the turban that he wore hung a gossamer veil of the same hue, which Claverdon guessed was meant to be pulled over the face, though now it hung behind. He recognised Rahman Ali instantly, who, it appeared, kept solitary vigil, waiting for his great hour.

As Rahman Ali saw the man stumbling towards him, tapping with his stick, a look of wonder came on his lean face, and for a moment he stood by the brazier staring at the intruder in his solitude. Claverdon did not pause; but in his role of blind man shuffled forward till he felt the heat from the fire, then he groped about with his staff, conscious that the man standing by was subjecting him to a sharp scrutiny. His staff caught the brazier, almost upsetting it. Then he stretched a hand, as if for the first time aware of the heat of the fire, and as he did so ejaculated whisperingly —

'Ah! a fire. And where the fire is the man is.'

He stood as if listening, with the man whom he had come to seek watching him with almost tigerish eyes; then he gave a hail which rang through the rocky chamber—

'Ho! there! Is there one who hears?'

'Aye!' answered Rahman Ali almost in his ear. 'Whom seekest thou, blind one?'

Claverdon gave a convincing start as the reply came, and of deliberate intent almost backed upon the brazier. The other stretched a hand and dragged him clear.

'Have a care, blind man, or thy flesh will sizzle!... What seekest thou in this forbidden place?'

'A man! To whom I bring a message. One Rahman Ali?'

'I am he!' answered the other sharply. 'Speak thy message, quickly.'

'Nay,' replied Claverdon, a cunning note in his tone. 'The message is a very secret and not for the ears of the first man who shall claim the right to hear it. I must have proof that the right is thine, unknown one before―'

'Proof!' brake in the hill-man impatiently. 'What proof can one give to sightless eyes?'

Claverdon chuckled. 'None to sightless eyes; but many to quick ears. If thou are indeed Rahman Ali this will be known to thee.'

He thrust the ring that Narani had given him towards the firelight as he spoke, and saw the other start as he cried sharply: 'It is known!'

'Words are easy to speak,' answered Claverdon. 'Any man might claim to know what is before thine eyes, but one man only can know from whom it comes; and if thou wilt speak that name―'

'Narani! It is she who sends it!' interrupted the native imperiously. 'Thy message, blind one. Quick! she is here?'

'Aye! She is in the village and has bitter need of thy help. There is a man who hath taken her and means her ill, and unless thou canst go to her quickly?'

'Who is the man?' broke in the other stormily. 'By Allah, he shall die!'

'It is the Russian who is thy friend. He had looked on her beauty with evil eyes, and hath taken her that he may work his sinful will. And the woman's message is that unless thou go quickly she must die to save―'

'Heaven curse the dog!... Where is she?'

'In a house in the village, to which I am to lead thee if thou would save her from an evil man,' answered Claverdon, watching the other's face keenly under cover of his goggles. For one moment doubt showed on Rahman Ali's face; and as he looked at the messenger suspicion flashed in his dark eyes. Claverdon saw both and knew that the issue was in doubt.

Deliberately he thrust the great turquoise afresh into the other's notice.

'I was to give this to thy keeping, the woman said, that when thou didst come she might receive it at thy hands anew.'

Rahman Ali took the ring and as he did so the suspicion died from his eyes, and the doubt in his face completely vanished.

'I will go, blind one; but I must return within the hour, for this night is the womb of great things. But I go not alone. There is one shall go with me; and if thou hast lied he shall tear thy tongue out, and pierce thine ears, and set thee loose in the world to find thy road. But first―'

He threw off the green cloak, the turban with its long veil, and setting them on the stool, stood there in hill-man's garb, and Claverdon saw that his head was newly shaven. Then the man picked up another turban that lay on the floor, put it on, and stalked away towards the entrance of the cave.

Claverdon did not turn to watch him go, knowing that such an action must inevitably awaken new suspicions. He stood quite still, listening, considering. It was easy to guess that Rahman Ali had gone to see the sleeping sentinel, and as easy to divine that he proposed to take the man with him down to the village.

The sentinel, as a second man, represented a complication. Doubtless he was one of Rahman Ali's men who would fight for him to the death. He would have to be got rid of somehow, before his master could be safely disposed of— and just how was not immediately apparent.

A sound somewhere in the cave in front of him broke on his questions, and without appearing to have noticed it, he stared across the circle of firelight into the zone of darkness beyond. He could see nothing, though the sound that he had heard had been like a cautious footstep. He listened, and caught the sound again. There was someone else in the cave; of that he was convinced. Who? That was beyond all answer of his; but whoever he was the unknown had clearly no immediate intention of revealing himself, for though Claverdon continued to stare into the darkness he saw nothing. Then there reached him the sound of steps from the entrance to the cave. Rahman Ali was returning — and with him another, the sentry, no doubt. Claverdon still watched the darkness in the depth of die cave, but in vain; then Rahman Ali's voice broke on his ears.

'Take the blind one's arm, Ismail. We will go by the upper entrance.'

A heavy hand gripped Claverdon's arm, and a rough voice addressed him.

'Forward! holy man! Mine eyes shall be sight for thee.'

A jerk accompanied the words, and with Rahman Ali already moving ahead, and the sentinel gripping his arm, Claverdon was piloted into the darker recesses of the cave.

Chapter 17

AS THEY PASSED beyond the firelight, Claverdon, remembering the footsteps he had heard, stared about him intently but saw no one. Apparently the man had concealed, himself, not desiring Rahman Ali or the guard to know of his presence. The thought of that hidden man troubled him a great deal, as, with the guard's hand guiding him, he stumbled on an upward way. If the unknown had overheard the conversation between Rahman Ali and himself, he would be in possession of sufficient knowledge to utterly wreck the scheme of carrying off the pseudo Imam Medi before the tour of the manifestation.

A word to Ivan Melnikoff and there would be an end not merely of the scheme but of himself. A cool wind blowing on his face turned his thought in a new direction. Apparently they were approaching the outlet; and since to know thoroughly this second way into the cave might prove, to be of importance, as they stepped forth into the starlight, he scrutinised his surroundings as carefully as he could.

He was between two walls of rock, in a place so narrow that only one man could pass at a time. This passage turned abruptly, and just beyond the turn opened out on the hillside above the cave and to the right of it, as he knew from the position of the fire in front of the gate below. A narrow track wound along the hillside, and presently the view below was hidden by a turn, which set a hill between them and the gate.

In what seemed an incredibly short time to Claverdon they were moving downwards towards the village, and just as they reached it the rumble of Ringing Sands reverberated through the hills. As it died away the witness of the Muzzans followed.

'La ilaha illa Allah! Allahu Akbar!'

Following their example, with the thought that he would remove the last of any suspicion that Rahman Ali might entertain, Claverdon halted and himself cried sonorously in the listening night:— 'Allahu Akbar!'

'Forward, blind one!' commanded Rahman Ali impatiently. 'A good deed witnesseth to Allah more than an empty cry.'

They moved forward, and arriving at the street found it seething with excitement, full of men talking vociferously, and in some cases giving vent to ecstatic cries. Once, Claverdon hoard a phrase that told him what was in the hearts of the fanatics. 'Holy war!... There will be warriors plentiful as the grains of the barley harvest.'

The speaker was a mullah, and to Claverdon it was abundantly clear that Waldron's information was correct, and that tho hour of the bogus revelation which would loose fire and sword along a front of a thousand miles' was at hand. He was in a fever lest Rahman Ali, catching the prevailing excitement, should be diverted from his present purpose, and he was torn with apprehension, fearing that in the bustling, jostling crowd they might come face to face with Ivan Melnikoff.

But Rahman Ali, moving ahead, thrust his way along as if all the excitement and ecstasy had not the least relation to himself; and Claverdon, watching him. knew that Narani had in no way over-estimated her influence with the man. Apparently Ali's passion for her outweighed his ambition for a kingdom, or possibly he held the latter sure, whilst the object of the former was in jeopardy. In any case, he kept straight on till they arrived at the archway that led to the courtyard of the house where Narani was held a prisoner.

'Is this the place, priest?' he demanded harshly.

Claverdon felt his way to the corner of the gateway with his stick, then thumbed the stones as for some secret mark.

'It is the place,' he announced.

Rahman Ali without reply strode through the archway, with Claverdon and the guard at his heels.

'The door to the right,' whispered Claverdon, as they made the courtyard. Instantly Rahman Ali turned in the direction indicated, found the door, and rapped upon it in peremptory fashion. His summons was answered by a woman, and before she could so much as ask his business Rahman Ali had thrust a knife against her heart.

'There is a golden woman of the white race here. Take me to her or―'

The presence of the knife against her breast was sufficient for the woman. She threw up her hand in sign that she would do his will, and turned to lead him from the doorway. Rahman Ali jerked out an order to his bodyguard.

'Remain there, Ismail. Let none pass in or out.'

The man halted on the threshold, but Claverdon shuffled along in the wake of Rahman Ali and the woman. When the latter reached the doorway of Narani's chamber, she pointed within and slid aside. Rahman Ali stepped into her place, and for a moment stood looking into the room. Claverdon could not see his face, but over the man's shoulder he saw Narani, white-faced, her strange eyes burning, her whole being full of witchery of allurement. He was almost overcome by the sight; then the woman's eyes flashed a swift warning glance at him which told him that he was witnessing a piece of artistry that was so near reality as to have deceived himself who knew the truth.

It deceived Rahman Ali also. In eager anticipation he stepped forward.

'Narani,' he cried with fierce passion, 'I have come — bringing deliverance.'

'Oh, my lord! My lord!' responded the woman, in a voice that would have melted a heart of stone. A sound of gasping surprise at Claverdon's side drew his attention to the woman who had admitted him. He swung an her sternly.

'Go, woman! And let the tongue be still or―'

The woman fled away before the unfinished threat, and as she went Claverdon gave his attention to the drama of passion and treachery that was taking place before his eyes.

Rahman Ali had entered the chamber. He had almost reached Narani, and his hands were stretched to seize her when she stepped aside.

'Oh, my lord,' she whispered, 'is it the hour for love when death's shadow is over me?'

'I see no shadow,' said Rahman Ali tersely.

'Maybe not, but if you listen you may hear the beating of death's wings about us.'

The man laughed. 'I hear nothing save the music of your voice. Narani, I had your call and came— my feet burning! What is this tale I hear of the Cossack? Is it true what that blind priest said that―'

'It is true, my lord! He holds me prisoner here. He purposes evil. I cannot name all the wickedness intended, but when the Holy War begins I am to be given as a reward to a man of the Hills who is no better than a buffalo―'

Rahman Ali laughed scornfully. 'I will give that buffalo to the wolves. They shall pick his bones until they gleam white in the sun. And I will deal with the man who promises what is not his to give, as one deals with a thief. He shall hang from a tree like any border thief, or be thrown from a cliff to break his bones to small pieces. Who is the dog to lift his eyes to one who shall be queen of all the North?... I will deal with him before this morning sun has climbed above the hills; and before I have done with him he shall call on his God to send lightning to smite him that he may die... I have little time. The great hour, of which thou hast knowledge, is at hand, and I must go back to Ringing Sands. But thou canst not remain here. Thou shalt come with me and witness the hour of triumph―'

'Oh, my lord!' whispered Narani quiveringly. There was in the woman's voice such adoration and sense of overwhelming honour that Claverdon, though knowing that Narani must be acting, felt a stab of jealousy. As for Rahman Ali not for a moment did he doubt the genuineness of that adoring, quivering cry. He took a step forward, his face alight with passion, his eyes burning. He stretched a hand and rested it upon her shoulder.

'Narani — my queen!'

The woman sank to her knees, her beautiful head in the dust at his feet in a submission that would have deceived one far less enamoured than was Rahman Ali.

'My lord!' she whispered. 'My lord!' and even as she whispered her eyes sought Claverdon, standing but a couple of wards away, with his blind man's staff in his hand. There was an imploring look in them, and as plainly as if she had spoken audibly he caught her command:—

'Now! 'Now! Now!'

He was loth to do the thing that had to be done. As Rahman Ali stooped over the woman, and Claverdon swung back his staff to strike, he felt like a murderer striking down his unconscious victim. In that moment he would have given much to avoid the dealing of that foul stroke— to have faced his victim, and fought out the issue man to man, knee to knee, knife to knife. But the issues were too great for such, quixotism; the need of the moment so tremendous as to justify even a coward's blow, and with the remembrance of all that hung upon his action he struck the stooping man heavily on the back of the head with his staff.

His victim crashed to the ground without a cry. For one horrible moment his hands clawed the floor, then he lay supine, as like a dead man as any Claverdon had ever seen. Narani stood up suddenly and looked down at the prostrate form of the man whose passion for herself had been used for his betrayal.

'Oh!' she whispered. 'You have killed him!'

'No!' said Claverdon swiftly, 'only stunned him.'

Narani seemed to disregard the words. 'I feel as Judas must have felt when he kissed his Master. I, too, could hang myself.'

'Put that thought from you, Narani, answered Claverdon swiftly. 'No other way was possible. There is one of his men outside. I must speak to him... get him away. If he should chance to seek Rahman Ali―'

Without completing his words he left the chamber and moved to the door that gave on to the courtyard. He opened it quickly and looked forth. The man he sought was leaning on his rifle, staring across the courtyard at the rising moon. He turned at the sound of the opening door, and Claverdon addressed him in a swift whisper:—

'It is Rahman Ali's command that thou leave here; and that thou await his coming where the great rocks guard the way; to the upper entrance of the cave. It is his will that none pass that way until he comes, bringing with, him a woman.'

The man stared at him with startled eyes.

'A woman!' he whispered.

'Those mullahs will roast her if they know. And, by Allah, thou art of their tribe! How―'

'None but thou and I shall know of this thing, if thou keep the upper way with thy rifle. Go, man as Rahman Ali commands, whilst yet there is time to keep all back from the secret way. I shall tell him thou art gone!'

'Aye! and tell him that I wait for him— and the woman! May God curse, her barrenness if she delay Rahman Ali this great night.'

'She shall not delay him,' answered Claverdon reassuringly. 'Almost before thou reach the rocks they shall be at thy heels.'

'Good!' answered the hill-man, and stalked away.

Claverdon watched him until he reached the archway, then he returned swiftly to Narani. He found her kneeling by the fallen man, an enigmatic look upon her face.

'Here,' she whispered tragically, 'lies one who would have made me a queen— a man betrayed!'

'A man who was a tool for an evil hand,' he corrected sharply, 'and whose fool ambition would have caused rivers of blood to flow, and even yet may do so. If anyone comes, or if Ivan Melnikoff gets an inkling of what has happened, our course is run and that which we would prevent will befall.... We must get Rahman Ali away from here quickly.'

He dropped on his knees as he spoke, and stripping the unconscious man of his belt he bound his arms with it, and with his own belt fastened the mana's legs. Then cutting a strip from the senseless man's clothing he fastened a gag, and when it was in place stood up and looked at Nam-Tashi.

There was a look of trouble on her beautiful face which moved him profoundly.

'My dear,' he whispered, 'there is no blame―'

'I feel ashamed,' Narani broke in tremulously. 'As I see him lie there; a man who came to my help, as he said, hot-foot.'

'But―' He interrupted himself as through the thick stone walls came the strange rumbling of Ringing Sands, and which as it died away was followed by a chant of fanatical voices in the street. 'La ilaha illa Allah! Allahu Akbar!'

'You here? Those men are wolves. They will go forth from here ravening on the trail of blood if Ivan Melnikoff should have his way. That man lying there is the first step in the defeat of the Red Cossack's purpose.'

'Oh, I know,' she whispered. 'You must forgive my weakness. A woman must always have some tenderness for a man who loves her; and Rahman Ali set me before the kingdom of which he dreamed. You must not let him die.... You will promise me that?'

'With all my heart,' he answered. 'If we can get him out of this place down the long road across the passes I will promise that he shall live.'

'Then... I am ready.'

She moved to a bench and put on a sheepskin coat which lay there, then took a rough blanket and threw it over her head, and that done turned to him as he stood listening—'

'How will you get him away?'

'I shall have to carry him. The house to which we go is not far. Listen!' They listened. There was a sound of excited voices outside; the tramp of hurrying feet. She looked at him inquiringly.

'They are gathering for the miracle,' he conjectured, 'moving up the valley to Ringing Sands. In a little while the street will be empty, then we can leave. Wait here until I return.'

He slipped out of the house and from the deep shadow of the archway watched the excited, fanatical throng roll by. Wolves, he had called them, and wolves they would be if now they were disappointed of their will. If the great manifestation to which they were hurrying should prove a fiasco there would be no limit to their fanatical rage.

He foresaw a bad hour for Ivan Melnikoff, and doubted if the Cossack could ride the storm that would break when he failed to produce his promised Imam. He wondered if already Melnikoff had discovered that Rahman Ali was gone. If he had, he might guess the truth, and in that case there was need for haste, lest he should come to seek for his tool.

Impatiently he watched the mullahs stream past the moonlit entrance to the archway. The stream became a trickle, and finally ceased. Then he went to the archway's end and looked forth. The lower end of the street— the way that he must go— was empty of life— desolate. Within half a minute he was back in the house. He stooped, lifted the still unconscious man, flung him across his shoulder, and spoke a single word to Narani— 'Come!'

They left the house unchallenged, passed down the street without encounter, and arriving at the place where Waldron had his lodging, at his instructions Narani rapped upon the door. There was no answer to the summons, but as they stood there waiting, listening, from within came a slight sound of movement.

'Miss Wargrave!' he cried in a low tense voice.  'Open! Quickly!'

The sound of a bar dropping, and then as the door opened a girl, dishevelled, with a startled look on her worn face, confronted them. A second later she stepped aside without a word, and as they entered closed and barred the door behind them. Claverdon laid Rahman Ali on the floor and then asked a question. 'Did Mr. Waldron meet Nima-Tashi?'

'Yes! They went out together a little while ago.'

'Good!' Claverdon commanded, and turned to Narani.

'They have gone to The Gate— in case you and I failed. There was another plan―' He stopped, without explaining what the plan was.

'I also must go to Ringing Sands to find them if I can. But I think you should not remain here. When Ivan Menlikoff discovers his plans are defeated anything may happen. It is certain that there will be a terrific rumpus; and if he survives it he will comb this village through for Rahman Ali. He may even now have discovered that his Medi is missing, and if he has, the manifestation will be delayed on some pretext or other, while he makes the search.... You must not remain here. Rahman Ali must not remain. If you and Miss Wargrave have the courage to take him away―'

Narani straightened herself a little.

'Courage, I think we do not lack―'

'No, dear woman,' he broke in. No, a thousand times. I know that. But will you make this venture to complete what has been begun? There are ponies here. We can tie Rahman Ali to one of them, and you can move' ahead to wait our coming. There is a little-used track that goes up the hillside across from the village, and a place where Nima and I camped where you can lie secret until we arrive.'

'We can drive the ponies, if they are loaded,' said Narani, with a glance at the man on the floor. Then in a quivering voice, she said, 'Oh, be quick!'

Claverdon wasted no time. He loaded his own ponies and one of the two which belonged to Waldron, and to the fourth tied Rahman Ali, who still lay like one dead. Then he fastened the ponies to each other, and when all was ready they moved from the village to the track by which he himself had come to the place.

The village itself was like a place of the dead, but the night was full of sound by reason of clamouring voices which came from up the valley, where there was a glare of light that owed nothing to the moon. At the foot of the track he gave final instructions to Narani, and that done whispered: 'Be brave, my dear one!'

For a moment he stood and watched them as they began the ascent, then, as a fanatical roar rent the night he turned and began to hurry towards The Gate. Up the narrow and deserted street he passed, seeing no one but a woman, who stood in a doorway watching the glow that came from the head of the valley. There was none to observe him, and he was no longer the sightless mullah from Gabare, and under necessity to make no more than a blind man's pace. Beyond the village, he broke into a run, anxious if possible to get into touch with his friends before the tumult which he anticipated should break.

The glare ahead told him that new fires had been lighted, that the stage was set for the play where the chief actor must be missing; and as he ran he wondered if Ivan Melnikoff had yet discovered the thing which had befallen. It seemed incredible that he had not, and yet the silence which now held the hills indicated nothing of any untoward thing such as must have followed the discovery of Rahman Ali's absence.

Panting, with the sweat running down his face despite the chill of the night, he reached the point where the rough track opened on to the rock amphitheatre, beyond which lay the black Gateway in the hill. Half a dozen great fires were burning, and by their glow he saw an orderly multitude of men kneeling in lines in front of the Gateway— three hundred or so of them as he estimated in a swift glance — three hundred fanatics, waiting for a revelation— three hundred fanatics, waiting for a revelation- that would send them hurrying to their villages with the cry. that would set hearts ablaze.

'Holy War... Warriors for the Faith!'

He crept forward and, from the rocks whence he had taken his first view of The Gate, surveyed the scene before him more narrowly. The orderly lines of men, faces, as it seemed, touching the ground were very still. No sound— not so much as a whisper— came from them. They were, it appeared to him, waiting for some sign that was not yet given. But that silence, that stillness, that apparent patience were as he knew deceptive. Those bowed figures were seething with fanatical excitement. He felt the telepathic impact of that excitement in his own spirit, and as he crouched behind the screening rocks he wondered what would be the outcome of this wild thing for which the stage was set.

His eyes turned towards the dark Gate, inspecting it narrowly. There was a man standing there— no! there were three men, two of them were a little apart from the one whom he saw first. They were too deep in the shadow of The Gate for him to see their faces or to learn whether the Cossack was one of the three; but as he stared at them it was borne on him that they also waited for the sign for which those bowed bodies of men were praying. Then, quite suddenly, sounding startlingly clear in the great hush, a voice broke the silence:—

'La ilaha illa Allah! Allahu Akbar!'

There was a quiver in the bowed ranks― a ripple such as a gentle wind might have made on still water; then on the night came a new sound.

At first faint, and rustling, it grew in volume, became the throbbing of drums, through which sounded a low, deep musical note that might have been produced by some gigantic stringed instrument. Claverdon's eyes turned instinctively to the white sand slope from which the sounds issued. It was in shadow, unreached by the glowing radiance of the fires or the colder rays of the moon. But as he stared, it seemed to him that on its white face he  discerned certain dark figures moving; and as the sound grew in volume he distinctly made out the form of a man on horseback ascending the slope. As he saw the latter the sound which now filled the hills had for him no mystery— for the clue was there before his eyes.

The sands spoke only as they were set in motion, and those dark figures climbing the white slope were, whether consciously or not, serving the fraudulent miracle which Melnikoff was perpetrating to impress the true believers. He promptly lost interest in the sands, and turned his eyes again towards the Gate, and as he did so his heart leaped with anticipation— for two of the men were disappearing in the darkness of The Gate, whilst the third man had moved a little so that he stood in the glare of the nearest fire — Ivan Melnikoff.

He stared at the Cossack in wonder. Apparently the man was quite serene and undisturbed. Was it possible that he was yet ignorant of the withdrawal of Rahman Ali? It seemed incredible, but if it were so, what a tremendous shock was preparing for him! What would he do when the unforeseen denouement was reached? How would those fanatics, kneeling with foreheads touching the stones, react to the disillusionment that was bound to overtake them? They were not gentle of spirit. Their fiery faith would flame destructively, and it was possible that in a very few minutes the Red Cossack might be no more than a heap of mangled and bloody flesh.

The reverberations of the sands were dying away. Claverdon had a conviction that when they were quite still the critical moment would arrive; and his eyes leaving the Cossack began to search the amphitheatre for his friends. Just as he did so a email stone rattled somewhere behind him, and with his heart in his mouth he turned swiftly, anticipating attack.

He saw the ruddy light gleam on a rifle-barrel that projected from behind a rock less than six yards away, and whilst he stared at it, helpless and fascinated, from behind the rock appeared Nima-Tashi's broad face, grinning cheerfully.

'Ho-ho, my friend,' he chuckled softly,  'The moment to shoot draws nigh.'

Chapter 18

CLAVERDON MADE a sign of silence to the Tibetan, and, as the latter crept nearer, asked a question — 'Where is Waldron?'

'In the very middle of the last row of those praying fools. He is in despair— thinking that thou hast failed.'

'I have not failed,' whispered Claverdon exultantly.

'Thou has not failed?' There was an incredulous note in Nima-Tashi's voice, and his broad face had a look of blank wonder.

'Thou hast snatched Rahman Ali from this play ?'

'An hour ago,' answered Claverdon. 'Then why―'

Nima did not finish his question. His eyes roving over the bowed backs of the men kneeling so devoutly were more eloquent than any words, and it was plain that with those devout lines of fanatics before him belief came hardly. 'I do not know. I can. only think that Melnikoff has not yet discovered that his chief actor is missing.'

'But he will not be long in learning,' said the Tibetan a little grimly. 'Didst see the two men who went into that hole, just now?'

'Yes! I should say they have gone to bring Rahman Ali forth and to display him in the character of the Imam Medi.'

'And if they do not find him? Hey? We shall see hell surging among these rocks.'

'I think so! I wish we could get Waldron to fall back. It would be easy―'

He stopped sharply as Ivan Melnikoff lifted a hand. The reverberations of the Ringing Sands had completely died away, and the night was still as death. But there was a tenseness in the air of which Claverdon was vividly conscious, a sense of expectancy that he could not repress, and as he saw Melnikoff's lifted hand he guessed that it was a signal.

A moment later the confirmation of his guess was given, for from somewhere in the shadows that shrouded the white sand slope came a voice bearing the witness that he had heard so often in the last two days― 'La ilaha illa Allah! Allahu Akbar!'

The voice rang through the intense stillness like a bugle. It was echoed musically from the hillsides; and the echo was still ringing when from somewhere far away the great cry was taken up by a new voice. Another on the hillside immediately above the Gate took it up also, and another and another until the still night was ringing with a cry of many voices; and between the real voices and the echoes of them it seemed to Claverdon that all the muezzins in the world were gathered in this desolate place, calling the world to prayer.

Suddenly there was a movement in the adoring lines in front of them, a quivering motion that seemed to pass bask and forward among them, and though no head was lifted, as at some secret signal from those bowing ranks, muffled by their nearness to the ground, sounded an answering 'Allahu Akbar!' The cry, deep and resonant, was like the reverberation of Ringing Sands itself. The air seemed to vibrate; the hills to resent the impact of the sonorous cry, flinging it back in a confusion of echoes that left no reflected word distinct.

Claverdon crouched in his place, his eyes fixed on the mullahs of the rear rank, trying to decide which of three men was Dick Waldron, when the Tibetan whispered hoarsely in his ear— 'Saidst thou that thou hadst that eagle-cock Rahman Ali limed?'

'I have him not merely limed but trussed,' he answered quickly.

'Then in the name of all gods, new and old, who is this who comes?'

Nima's head gave a jerk in the direction of The Gate as he spoke, and looking swiftly in that direction, Claverdon had the shock of his life. Between two men— the men who had entered the -cave, as he guessed, and who now returned— walked a third, a man attired in green robes; whose face was concealed by a silken veil of the same hue.

As he moved towards the front, flanked by his two conductors, with the light of the nearest fire full upon him, there was a fierce roaring shout of welcome arose the kneeling mullahs, and, as the man's hand was lifted in blessing, on the stillness that followed the fierce welcome a thin voice sounded across the amphitheatre: —

'In the name of Allah the Compassionate, the Merciful, greeting!'

Claverdon stared at that silk-robed figure, with a look on his face of a man passing through an incredible dream of which the very experience was yet convincing of reality. He had seen those clothes of Rahman Ali, and that veiled man standing there was the height of Rahman Ali himself with the same slightness of figure. But as he told himself Rahman Ali was far away, bound to a pony, being led up the hill away from the village. He told himself that, but in that startling moment he did not find the fact convincing.

A dozen things, as his mind told him swiftly, might have happened. Narani and her companion might have met someone who recognising Rahman Ali; had set him at liberty. Or Rahman Ali, coming out of the deep unconsciousness which had followed the blow he had suffered had freed himself and had hurried back to keep this appointment at Ringing Sands.

He was appalled at the thought, then his mind clutching at straws began to register the things against such chances. He himself had hurried— almost run— all the way to Ringing Sands, and it was not possible that Rahman Ali, supposing he had freed himself, could have reached the place so quickly, without passing him on the road. But supposing he had taken the steeper but shorter track through the hills to the upper entrance to the cave? In that case―

He did not finish the thought, but stared at that green-robed figure, appalled. After all his efforts had been vain. The Cossack's hocus-pocus of the manifestation of the Imam Medi was being fulfilled before his eyes. Soon those three hundred or so fanatical priests would be roaring in frenzied faith and―

The click of a breech-bolt broke upon his apprehensive thoughts, and Nima-Tashi's voice cool as the mountain snows sounded in his ears. 'Do I fire before the fool speaks— or after?'

He was too stunned with amazement to reply at once. He stared stonily at the veiled man, finding his presence there in the shadow of The Gate more miraculous than it must have seemed to the most fanatical and credulous mullah of them all. Then he saw the Tibetan rest his rifle on a rock and begin to adjust the sights. That moved him to speak.

'Wait!' he said in a peremptory whisper, 'Don't fire until I give the word.'

Nima-Tashi grunted disapprobation, but Claverdon took no notice. His eyes were fixed on the veiled man. striving to pierce his incognito, but in vain. That he could be Rahman Ali was utterly unbelievable; and yet―

His thought checked sharply as the Imam moved, raising his hand, as it seemed, in benediction. Claverdon watched the man with burning eyes, waiting for him to speak again. He might recognise the voice, though he had failed to do so when he had spoken before; or failing that the fellow might yet unveil himself, though that was hardly likely. He waited, all in the amphitheatre waited, and the silence was profound, testifying to the intensity of feeling in the watching mullahs.

Then on the utter stillness broke a strange sound, utterly alien to the scene and to the solemnity of the occasion— a thin reedy laugh of mockery! It was a sound so utterly unexpected and startling that Claverdon almost jumped,, then amazed he stared at that veiled man. Had that laugh come from him or from another? Scarcely had he asked himself the question when the sound was renewed, and this time he was in no doubt as to whence it emanated, for Melnikoff took a quick step towards the veiled man, his whole bearing betraying apprehension― one step, and no more; for suddenly the veiled man's arm was lowered, and the index finger pointing accusingly at the Cossack checked his movement forward as if it had been a wall.

The laughter sounded once more. Now it had lost its reediness and was mocking and scornful— laughter without any mirthful quality, utterly chilling and fearsome coming from that veiled man with his terrific pretensions. Its effect on the assembled mullahs was amazing. Some sat up on their heels and stared at the green-clad man in fear, others bowed their heads to the ground and groaned, whilst one man, utterly overcome by fear, leaped to his feet and fled shrieking from the place, in his flight passing close by the rocks where Claverdon and Nima were concealed. His eyes, as they saw, were start with terror, his mouth working helplessly.

Claverdon spared him no more than a glance, his eyes turning again to that mysterious veiled man and to Ivan Melnikoff, who again was moving towards the man. Claverdon heard him cry out savagely in Russian:—

'In hell's name, who are you, madman?'

Probably, of all assembled there, besides the man to whom the words were addressed, he was the only one who understood them, and they brought him reassurance― the veiled man was not Rahman Ali. But who―

Before he had finished asking himself the question the answer was on the way. The veiled man in reply to the Cossack tore the flimsy veil from him, and flinging it on the ground confronted the other with uncovered face. The Cossack shrank back as he did so, and then there broke from him an incredulous cry:—

'You— Dimitri Andrevitch?'

'Yes! I— Dimitri Andrevitch!' On the heels of the answer again rang that strange mad laughter, now mockingly triumphant, and at his elbow Claverdon heard Nima-Tashi give a low cry of amazement.

'The mad Russian! By all the gods!'

Claverdon looked at the unveiled face, worn and haggard, but now lit by revengeful triumph, and knew instantly that his companion was right. That man confronting Melnikoff so dramatically was indeed the Russian who had been thrust on them as bedfellow in the village where Melnikoff had captured Narani, and who had declared so wildly, 'A man's life only can stay my hunger.'

Crouching there, watching the pair confronting each other so dramatically, he understood suddenly that Ivan Melnikoff's life was the one for which the madman yearned. and, everything else momentarily forgotten, he waited for the tragic outcome of the personal feud between those two men. It came unexpectedly.

The man in the robes of the Imam began speaking again, still in Russian, shrieking in insane triumph.

'At last, Ivan Melnikoff, we meet! And your life is mine, and more than your life.' He waved a hand in the direction of the now staring fanatics. 'The triumph for which you have worked through these— I take it from you, before I slay you and stamp you in the dust.'

Something gleamed in his hand, and Claverdon guessed a knife. The hand was raised to strike. The insane laughter sounded afresh, and again the man spoke. 'You understand... your life! Your hellish work! Your―'

'No! By God!' The interjected words came from Melnikoff. From the moment when he had shouted the man's name he had stood there,  spellbound, overcome perhaps by astonishment or fear; but that raised arm with the threatening knife broke the spell. He moved quickly backward, his hand jerked forward, there was a spurt of fame, the rocky place rang with the sound of a pistol shot, and the man who had threatened him gave a sharp scream and collapsed on the stones— like an emptied sack― and lay still, his green robe shimmering in the firelight.

For a moment no one moved; then whilst his victims' death-scream still echoed among the hills, the Red Cossack took a step forward and spurned the dead man with his foot. His action broke the spell which had held the kneeling watchers. From half a hundred throats came fierce cries. Possibly from those who still believed that the man who had died was the Imam they had expected. Melnikoff must have known in that moment that his life hung by a hair; but he fronted the fanatics with a courage and coolness that were superb.

'Stay! my brothers!' he cried. 'This man was not the Holy One who is to come. He was a trickster, an impostor, a tool of Sheitan sent to stay the great work— wherefore I shot him. If he had been what he seemed no bullet could have touched him. But he was evil and hath wrought his own destruction. The true Imam hath permitted this for his greater glory and for the undoing of those who work against his holy purpose.... They are known! There are some in our midst. One brought me word but an hour ago of a blind mullah, who claimed to he the mullah of Gabare. The man who brought that word said he was the mullah's servant, that his master had been foully slain on the way hither, and that the man who wore his clothes was a deceiver... we must search him out. Before the Imam is manifested that infidel dog must die as lies this dog here!'

He kicked the dead man at his feet as he spoke, and Nima-Tashi whispered impatiently:

'Do I shoot?'

'No!' said Claverdon peremptorily. 'It would be the end of us all! Wait.'

'We must hunt the infidel, burn him with fire to purify the place of Revelation, then shall the true Imam manifest himself; and then by troops shall ail the unbelievers be driven towards hell! So is it written in the Holy Book, and we are the instruments of Allah as we shall be his sword. Is it not so? Shall not the blood of the infidels flow in rivers?'

He paused dramatically, and one of the fanatics roared suddenly— 'Allah! Allah!' The cry was taken up by a hundred throats, and men rose to their feet, seething, shouting with delirious- excitement.

The Cossack had won, and he stayed them by a gesture.

'Then smell out the infidel as the wolf smells out the doe. But let no man slay him, he shall make the purification of blood before the morning prayer, when the Holy One shall appear. Search first among yourselves, then in the streets, the houses, the hills. Challenge all in the name of God. Away! Ho! Ho!'

There was a roaring answering, 'Ho!' from the crowd.

A sudden movement, a surge of men delirious with excitement, and the crowd began to move half a score of ways at once. The confusion was amazing.  Hoarse voices shouted wild cries, running men collided with each other, and cursed in unpriestly fashion, and out of the confusion came a little trickle of men moving in the direction of the village— one of them half a dozen yards ahead, yelling like a man demented.

'Waldron Sahib!' said Nima-Tashi in a voice hoarse with excitement. 'It is time to leave this place of hell!'

'Yes!' answered Claverdon, 'but wait for the surge and join it.'

He gave a swift glance at the stream of men, then spared an eye for the stone platform in front of The Gate. It was empty, save for that still figure in green silk, and he guessed that Imam Melnikoff had taken the upper way from the cave. In the same moment he remembered Rahman Ali's guard, whom he himself had sent to keep that way. Melnikoff would run into him, would learn the truth, and in half an hour the pursuit would be out. There was need for haste. He looked at the running fanatics again. The trickle had become a surge, the moment had arrived.

'Leave the rifle, Nima! It will betray us! Come! And yell thy loudest.'

They ran from the rocks and joined the crowd, running down the rocky way like a mountain stream in spate.

'Allah!' roared the Tibetan stentoriously: and Claverdon himself shouted the sacred name as vociferously as the fiercest believer of them all. They were caught in the surge, and swept forward by it. The press of men in the narrow way was terrific, but by clinging to the Tibetan's belt, Claverdon was able to keep pace with him, and to avoid separation in the crowd. Presently the track opened out on the village street, which was full of men and women— the latter vociferating shrilly, the men roaring hoarsely.

'Here the bees of bell swarm,' quoth Nima-Tashi. 'One may get stung before one is aware.'

'Take the dark side of the street.' counselled Claverdon. 'We go to Waldron's lodging.'

They took the moonless side, hurrying through the deeper shadows, and half-way down heard a voice shouting harsh commands.

'The Cossack!' ejaculated Nima. 'Oh, for a rifle, a shot in the dark and a run in the night as is the fashion of these hills!'

Looking across the street, Claverdon saw Melnikoff standing in a bright patch of moonlight outside the gateway of the house where Narani had been held prisoner. He knew then that they had little time to spare. Doubtless Melnikoff had encountered Rahman Ali's guard, and from him had learned of his master's visit to the village. Also he would have talked with the woman of the house, and from their joint account have guessed perhaps half the truth. And whether he divined the whole truth or was misled by the notion that Narani had lured her hill-man lover away would make no difference in the issue. In a few minutes the pursuit would be out; and it was most imperative that they should leave the village ahead of it.

'Listen, Nima,' he said. 'Listen carefully. Take the path up the hill by which we came to this place; and go then to the place where we camped. Thou wilt find Narani and the girl for whom Waldron Sahib was seeking there. Also his ponies and ours. Take the ponies and the ladies and start the march on the backward way across the hills. Make good speed; and tarry not for us, who will come after.'

'But if trouble should overtake ye!' objected Nima.

'That will be our affair. Take no account of us. Travel fast, and if we do not come  get Narani and the other lady across the hills to Baltit... No words, my friend. Stretch thy lumbering legs. I turn here―'

Without giving Nima time to protest, he turned and began to cross the street. As he went he heard the Tibetan growl an oath, and, notwithstanding the peril mounting all around, he laughed softly to himself, understanding well the other's feeling.

As he reached the moonlit side of the road, three men came out of a house followed by a woman, whose objurgations revealed that they had been searching her hovel. They looked at him sharply, and he took a rather threatening bull by the horn.

'Ye have not found the false one, brothers?'

'No! Nor yet the woman of sin with hair of gold.'

'God curse her and all mothers of infidels!' he said with becoming ferocity. 'May their breasts wither and their spawn die for lack of milk!... I go to find a brother who knows the mountain roads. It is the Russian's order that we hurry to prevent the escape of those we seek that way.'

'Allah give thee luck!' said one of the men, and with that dismissal he hurried on.

He reached the edge of the village without further molestation, and presently stood before Waldron's lodging. The door was closed and as he stared at the blind wall it presented to the street, he was conscious of a sudden misgiving. What if Waldron had not returned here? He listened for a moment outside the door. No sound reached him; then he rapped sharply, and his heart leaped with thankfulness as a sleepy voice asked in native speech—

'Who knocked at this unseemly hour?'

'Claverdon! Quick! Open!'

The bar dropped almost instantly, and as the door opened the moonlight showed him his friend fully dressed, his face drawn with apprehension.

'In God's name, what ? '

'Come! I will explain as we go. Helen Wargrave is safe.'

'Thank God! I left her here―'

'I know. She is in the hills now with Narani, and we must follow. Quick, shut the door and leave all standing, tour ponies are ahead. The hounds are out on a hot trail. Come!'

Waldron forbore a single further question. He shut the door and joined his friend, and together they began to move away from the village, choosing as far as possible the shadowy places.

From the village there came the sound of growing hubbub. In front of them, on ponies, four men spurred through the moonlight down the valley; and as he saw them Claverdon feared that others would already have taken the hill road, and that the pursuit would be close. When they reached the foot of the narrow track they listened, but no sound of steps reached them.

'We are ahead of the hounds yet!' he whispered and began to lead the way uphill, fairly scuttering across the moonlit places, where the sharp eyes of the hill-men might pick them out. When they had gone half a mile, in the shadow of some mountain shrubs they paused to listen. For a moment they heard nothing; then quite distinctly there reached them a rattle of stone, the sound of stumbling feet, and the hoarse tones of a hill-man's voice cursing some other man.

'The hunt!' whispered Claverdon. And with the certain knowledge that the pursuit was at their heels they hurried forward as noiselessly and swiftly as the stony track allowed.

Chapter 19

TWICE, BEFORE reaching the place of Claverdon's late camp, they stopped to listen, without hearing anything of the pursuers; and when they arrived at the point where to reach the camp they must turn aside they were spared the necessity of doing so,

'Hark!' said Waldron as a sound came through the stillness. Listening, they heard distinctly the rattle of stones under shodden hoofs. Claverdon rejoiced at the sound.

'Nima has been quick. The ponies are ahead.'

They hurried forward and after a little time glimpsed the ponies and their leaders as they turned the crest of a hill.

'In ten minutes we shall overtake them,' said Claverdon. 'And if we are followed we shall be able to pick off the pursuers with rifles, though I hope it may not come to that.'

The ten minutes mentioned had grown to twenty before they came into close hailing-distance of the little cavalcade; and then as Nima's voice, shouting objurgations at some obstinate beast, reached them, Claverdon gave a low hail.

'Co— oee! Softly, Nima!'

The Tibetan made no reply, and possibly he realised the necessity for caution, for his shouting ceased suddenly, and only the clash of the ponies' hoofs told that anyone moved ahead. In a little while they came up with the party, and in the first glance Claverdon saw that Rahman Ali had at least partly recovered from the blow he had suffered, for he sat in a crouching position on one of the ponies with his legs bound under the beast, which Nima himself was leading.

'Ho-o!' laughed the big man. 'We have pulled our nut out of the fire.'

'The smoke is about us still! Move silently as you can, Nima. It blows this way.'

'So? Ye were seen? Followed?'

'There were men on the hill behind us. We heard them. Whether they saw us or not I cannot tell. They may have been just beating the country for us, but it is well to be careful and make haste.'

'True wisdom,' commented Nima.

Claverdon moved forward towards the first pony at the head of which walked a tall, lissom figure, that despite masculine habiliments he knew was Narani. As he approached she turned her head, and he saw her face in the moonlight, and caught a glisten of tears in the wonderful eyes.

'Oh, thank God!' she whispered. 'You have come! You are safe.'

'For the present,' he answered as he caught her hand, and held it for a moment, then he whispered quickly, 'You are trembling, Narani. The night has been too much for you? You―'

'No, dear man, I... I shake with joy. All this stony way I have been consumed with fear. The Tibetan told me that you had seen Ivan Melnikoff in the street. I feared that you had fallen into his hands again, and now he will be a ravening wolf.'

'Not a doubt of that!' he answered cheerfully, with a backward glance at Rahman Ali.  'We've messed up his Imam Medi business pretty thoroughly, and I think there will be no manifestation at Ringing Sands, though I wish we had him as well as that wild bird behind us.'

'Who was that man of whom Nima told me who personated Rahman Ali, and who was killed by Ivan Melnikoff?'

'A mad Russian who―'

'A Russian!' cried Narani in a strained voice.

'Yes, a man who came to that village when the Cossack took you and me. He had some grievance against Melnikoff, as I imagine many of his countrymen must have. He knew about Ringing Sands, for he was our guide to the place, though he deserted us― Great Scot!' he ejaculated suddenly. 'He must have been the man whom I heard in the cave.'

'What man? Tell me!'

'It was when I took your ring to Rahman Ali. I heard someone move in the darkness, but saw no one. Probably he overheard us, and when Rahman Ali had left, assumed his robes. The green veil would hide his face and make the deception easy... I know that when he appeared in front of The Gate with two mullahs at his side I thought that somehow Rahman Ali must have escaped — and returned for the manifestation. I thought that — though I found it incredible... I can see it all now! The man's shaken mind chose that dramatic way of straightening out his account with the Cossack!... He must have known that he would die swiftly in the end, but he cared little for that apparently. He boasted to Melnikoff how he had undone him, and he had lifted a knife to slay when Melnikoff shot him.'

'He was really dead?' asked Narani in a voice that made him look at her concernedly.

'Killed outright, I should say. He screamed once—'

'Oh-h!' A little sobbing, whispering cry came from her lips, astonishing him, for he had not suspected that a man's violent death could so move her.

'Don't worry, Narani―'

'You are quite sure he was dead — sure beyond all question?'

'Very sure! He never moved after he fell. He lay huddled and still all the time the Cossack was talking to that crowd of fanatics. Twice Melnikoff spurned him with his foot―'

'O-o-oh!' Again there came the sobbing cry that he found hard to understand.

'By why should I distress you with gruesome details, when―'

'Tell me all!' she interrupted in a quivering voice. 'I am interested— oh! how much you cannot understand!'

Her earnestness, her manifest concern and utter distress troubled him. Then he remembered something that Melnikoff had said on the night of her capture, and a sudden wild suspicion shot in his' mind.

'Narani,' he said; his voice shaking, 'I have never heard your name— your family name I mean... Tell me— now!'

'But why?' Emotion choked her utterance for a moment; then she asked between sobs: 'Why do you... ask me... now?'

'Because I am afraid for you... I have a distressing thought that... that―' He broke off, then he asked abruptly: 'Your family name is ... is Andrevitch?'

'Yes,' she whispered brokenly. 'I am Olga Andrevitch, and my brother―' Again emotion made her inarticulate, and Claverdon waited, dumb with sympathy for her anguish. 'My brother was Count Dimitri Andrevitch!'

'Oh, my dear one!' he said, much moved. 'My dear one.'

For a moment she did not speak. Her face was hidden from, him, but he heard her sobbing in the shadow, and presently she asked another question brokenly:

'It was ... it really was... my... my brother?'

'I think so,' he answered gently. 'The Cossack recognised him when he tore the veil from his face, and he cried out his name. Your brother was exultant, and till Melnikoff fired was utterly triumphant, knowing that he had wrecked the other's plan―'

'I am glad of that!' she interrupted with a touch of passion. 'I am glad that Dimitri was able to triumph— though he died.'

'If the Cossack had not had the pistol he would have died first―'

'But he lives!' she said fiercely. 'He lives, and we flee from him. Almost I could go back and slay him with my own hands...'

She was silent a little time, then she spoke again, less distraughtly.

'I did not know that Dimitri was alive. I thought that he had died on a night long ago, when Ivan Melnikoff let loose the vile scum of revolutionaries on our home in the Caucasus. And only the other night the Cossack said that he was dead.'

'He believed it! I am sure of that. He was the most astonished man in all Asia when he looked into your brother's face at Ringing Sands.'

'But he shot... Dimitri at last!' she whispered tragically. 'He triumphed―'

'No! His work of years is ruined, and your brother helped— he helped amazingly! It is true he died; but I am sure that he broke the faith of these fanatical mullahs in Ivan Melnikoff. Not all of them were lending themselves to an imposture. Many of them were true believers. They expected a miracle— and they witnessed a murder. Ivan Melnikoff moved them by ferocious speech, but they were all keyed up for anything; and in the moaning, when the light is cold on the hills they will see things in a dry light, they will guess the imposture that was planned, and they will trust the Cossack no more. Indeed, tomorrow, they will, I think, be utterly disillusioned; men and such men may be dangerous to the man in whom they have lost faith... Your brother accomplished almost as much as if he had lived and the Cossack had died―'

'But Ivan Melnikoff lives, and Dimitri lies there among the rocks for the kites and vultures to clean his bones.'

'True, Narani.'

'I could return, and seek his murderer that I might slay him.'

'There may be no need to seek him,' answered Claverdon quietly. 'I think it is possible that he will seek us. He will be like a mad wolf! When he learns which way we have gone he will follow— with the desire for revenge to spur him! I think he must already have learned that Rahman Ali left Ringing Sands to see you. He knows that, as the blind mullah of Gabare, I am an impostor— I heard him say so— and he may guess who the impostor is. And he will no doubt guess more than the facts warrant, particularly, if he remembers hearing about the mad Russian who was at the village when we were taken prisoners. He will make two and two into five — connecting us with your brother's actions when we had absolutely no knowledge of them at all. And that will be a goad to him to follow and overtake us, and if he should―'

He broke off and looked on the backward way. There was a look of trouble in his eyes, for he knew that in the event of such a pursuit as Melnikoff might organise, made up of men with knowledge of every twist and turn in these stark hills, the chances of ultimate escape would be slim indeed.

Then the immediate present claimed his attention. The track turned along a slippery, shelving declivity running down the hills to the bed of a stream. Now it twisted a crooked way among the most amazing debris of fallen rock, and again it was in the open with the moonlight pouring down to reveal their way to the world. Steadily they progressed, until they came to a great fan of debris spreading out from a minor valley, across which the track marched. It lay in broad moonlight, perfectly visible from the hills above, and they were half-way across it when a rifle shot punctured with sharper sound the rattle of the stones.

A bullet ricocheted from a flat rock and found one of the ponies, bringing it to the ground.  Claverdon turned swiftly, and caught sight of the marksman standing on a spur of rock, a dark figure against the moonlight. Then he looked swiftly at the pony. It was past help, and since the silhouetted figure on the cliff was probably the vanguard of the pursuit he knew there was no time for delay.

'Hurry!' he said. 'Get among the big rocks over there. Once there we shall be in shadow.' He himself slipped a rifle from its fastenings, on one of the ponies, saw that the magazine was full and at the first convenient rock dropped as if he had been shot. The marksman had disappeared from the cliff, but not for a moment did he think the man had withdrawn. To a hill-man with a rifle the little cavalcade creeping down the hill would be irresistible and he would certainly try another shot.

He lay quite still, watching his front and listening to the rattle of stones as his friends moved on at the best pace that they could make. No other sound reached him, and for a time he saw nothing save the bald cliffs and the stark hills looking eerie and unearthly in the broad moonshine. The rattle of stones grew fainter, died away at some sharp turn of the track, and still he waited, watching with alert eyes. It was a game that he had played before— this hunting of the hunter; and now he played it with infinite patience, very sure that shortly the rifleman would reveal himself.

His confidence was not mistaken. Presently there reached him the sound of a stone bounding and rattling down the 'pari.' He located the sound easily, and guessed that the man for whom he was waiting was descending from the cliff by some goat-track leading down to the small valley from which the debris flowed. Noiselessly he shifted his position so as to command a full view of the slope of the valley. The line on which the pursuer must be descending was in shadow, making approach easy for the hunter; but, as Claverdon, guessed, sooner or later he must emerge in the open moonlight, and for that moment he waited tensely.

Again the sound of a moving stone came to his ears, and there followed a swish of shale as the unseen man set his foot on some loose surface. Then for a whole ten minutes there followed profound silence, broken only by the sound of running water deep in the valley. At the end of that time he thought he saw something move in the moonlight no more than three hundred yards away. He watched the place intently, and saw a man emerge in the open, hurrying across the debris to join the track on the farther side. The fellow travelled without any precautions, with indeed the, eagerness of one who follows a running quarry, evidently assured that those whom he stalked were flying from him without any thought of reprisals.

Claverdon saw the barrel of the rifle the fellow carried gleam in the moonlight, and had no doubt whatever that he was the man who had fired the shot from the cliffs, and even less doubt that he meant to fire again as soon as he caught sight of his quarry. Last time, by an accident, he had bagged a pony, next time he might get one of the humans— Narani, or that girl for whom Waldron had sought so long!

That possibility made him ruthless. He was loth to shoot a man who was utterly unaware of what was coming to him, but he knew that were the positions reversed the hill-man would be utterly ruthless; and with five lives in the balance, not counting Rahman Ali, it was no time for scruples. He waited with rifle in position, until the line of the man's march across the debris brought him within eighty yards; and as the man became clearly visible in the light he fired.

The shot was true. The man leaned in the air and fell prone, dead as Claverdon thought. He did not go to make sure. Whilst the clang-g-g of the rifle shot echoed from rock to cliff, filling the night with sound, from afar there came a clamour of voices, the shouts of men calling to each other. That the sound of shot had been heard he had no doubt, and he knew that it would draw the pursuers that way, and that when the pony and the dead man told their tale the pursuit would be at the heels of his friends and himself in earnest. He ran swiftly for the shadows on the either side of the fan of debris, and raced a little recklessly along the rough track on the farther side. He came to a place where a great crenelated scarp of rock thrust itself out from the hill round which the path turned abruptly; and on the farther side almost ran into the arms of Nima-Tashi.

'Steady, my jewel,' said the Tibetan with a sharp laugh of excitement.

'Are the avengers of blood at thy heels?'

'Not yet! But they may be presently, for I have left a shot man lying among the stones back there, and I heard his friends shouting to each other.'

Nima-Tashi whistled.

'If they find him they will be like wolves on the blood trail.'

'It will be enough if they find the pony.'

'Aye! but we could not carry a dead pony through the hills? Hey?'

'No! What made you come back, Nima?'

'We heard the shot. And that woman of thine, fearing for thee, would have returned. So I came in her stead, though I had no foolish fears for thee.'

They hurried on and overtook the ponies at a point where descent was difficult. Narani met Claverdon, and in the moonlight he saw in her eyes a glow of relief and something deeper.

'Oh!' she whispered tremulously, 'I was afraid that... that―'

He laughed. 'No need to anticipate that yet. But I fear that trouble is at our heels. The sound of that shot— my shot— was heard, and it will bring other men this way. We must travel fast.'

He left her and helped to get the ponies down the difficult place, but as they moved on again, he asked a question. 'There is another way than this to that tunnelled rock that we must pass?'

'Yes.' was the reply. 'It leads along the valley the other side of these hills.'

He whistled thoughtfully and Narani looked at him quickly. 'You think that Ivan Melnikoff may wait us there?'

He did not try to hide from her the fact that some such thought had inspired his question.

'It is a bottleneck,' he answered.

'The Cossack may remember that we must pass through. If he has sense he will not trouble to follow us, but will make directly for that strategic point.'

'But must we pass through?'

'I do not know that there is any other way. These are the worst hills in the world to wander among in the hope of finding a way out... I must talk to Waldron.'

They marched on in the darkness until the setting moon drove them to a fireless camp in the rocks, and there whilst the others strove to sleep., Claverdon and Waldron discussed the chances ahead in whispers. Those chances, as both men knew, were far from rosy. Ivan Melnikoff, with his precious scheme tumbling in ruins, would be a desperate man. He would spare no pains to save it, and to that end would comb the hills to secure Rahman Ali, whom he would guess was with them. Also, brutal and implacable by nature, the fierce passion for revenge would drive him to the most desperate efforts, and he was sufficiently a soldier to make for the strategic points and hold them until the fugitives he sought strayed into his nets.

'I'm for the hills and the way round,' said Waldron. 'We may wander for a month, but that is better than walking into a trap that any fool can guess will be set for us.'

'Yes! But there will still be desperate risks. The Cossack has his emissaries in the villages, and he will warn them to look out for us. Then there is the chance of the weather. It is the turn of the seasons. In these altitudes the snow may come any moment. These are chances to be taken, desperate enough, but not so desperate as that rock-bridge and tunnel. I think we'll talk to Nima. He is a hill-man by birth and training, and you and I are no more than amateurs.'

They wakened the Tibetan and put the pros, and cons, before him, He listened with stolid face until the whole matter was unfolded, then he spoke decisively:

'The hills and the fortune of the valleys before that gut of death. We should be picked off on the slope or on the track that leads to the rock-bridge, and I have no mind to be shot like a mountain sheep.... If the snow comes there will be villages, and I have known half a dozen hill-thieves hold a village at ransom through a whole winter. What has been done may be done again by men such as we be!'

They took the decision for the hills, and when morning came, bringing with it a blistering wind, resumed their journey, leaving the main track at a point when a small valley running southward promised a lead into the hills beyond the village above which was the death-trap tunnel. The valley opened out into another, a wider one, and there they stumbled on a track which climbed a hillside, and led to a very desert of stones, under the grey skies desolate as death— a wide reach of boulders and rock running to the very skyline, and which when topped opened on a strange boulder-strewn plain, more desolate than the hill-side itself. But  the track was there, a spidery line, ill-defined, winding in and out among the glacial boulders, and willy-nilly they followed it across the plateau, receiving warning of their possible fate from the bleached bones of both animals and men strewn here and there among the rocks— victims, as the man knew, of the fierce mountain storms.

Late in the afternoon the track descended from the plateau, and in a narrow valley they came suddenly upon a handful of stone hovels set below terraced fields, where two women were working. The latter stared at them in wonder, and one of them started to run, but at a friendly hail from Claverdon stopped and stood there waiting, staring, half-frightened, and wholly curious. Claverdon talked with her. Their menfolk were away— at Ringing Sands, he guessed.

'Yes,' said the woman in answer to his question. 'There is a way out of the valley. It leads to a house set across the road like a gate.'

'By the holy Lotus!' cried Nima-Tashi. 'The House of the Gong!'

Claverdon frowned him to silence, and questioned further.

'How far is this house?'

'Two days' journey,' answered the woman, adding, with a glance round, 'if snow does not come.'

Claverdon asked other questions, and got favourable answers.

Yes, the track was well-marked, but rough. No! there was no village. If they wanted food, she had barley-meal she could sell, or barley ready parched— nothing else. They purchased supplies of both, and mindful that the menfolk, of this hamlet might return and show not so friendly a spirit, they pushed on.

The next day they followed the valley, meeting storms of hail and occasional withering snow. Then the path began to ascend, and the day but one following touched the snowfield, covered with newly fallen snow and brilliant in sunshine. Tall peaks lifted themselves into view to the south, and Waldron, gave a shout.

'The Mustaghs. We can work that way―' He checked sharply as he caught the expression on Claverdon's face.

'What is it, old man?'

Claverdon pointed silently ahead, and turning swiftly two miles or so away by a crow's flight, had a three-quarter view of a black cleft in the snowy bills, at the foot of which was the squat looking building. He was still staring when Narani made the recognition.

'The House of the Gong!' she cried in a whisper.

'Yes,' answered Claverdon quietly. 'Let us go forward, and put our fortune to the last test.'

Nima-Tashi looked round the girdling peaks, the white snowfield, brilliant  in the sunshine, and then towards the black cleft and that squat house. Then, he laughed, recklessly.

'Forward! Krishna!— yes! A hazard is the spice of life.'

And with the snow-reflected sunshine dazzling eyes fixed upon that house of fate, they began to go forward.

Chapter 20

TWO MILES as the crow flies in the hills of Asia may be many miles as a man walks, and so it proved on the journey to that strange house set in the cleft of the hills. Such track as there might be was lost in the newly fallen snow; and with the cold sun glaring down upon the white surface they marched slowly along, finding the way as best they could. Before long the glare became troublesome. Eyes began to ache intolerably, and vision became blurred. From time to time Claverdon marched with his eyes closed; then opening them anew saw everything through an opalescent fog. He recognised the symptoms and looked at his companions. Nima-Tashi, accustomed to the strong light of open places as he was, had his eyes screwed up. From the fixed frown on his brow it was evident that Waldron was finding the glare troublesome, whilst both Narani and Helen Wargrave showed signs of strain. Rahman Ali, now dismounted, hands bound, and held by a rope attached to the middle pony, alone stared across the white waste with untroubled gaze, as the mountain eagle fronts untroubled the blaze of the sun.

'The sooner we are out of this intolerable light the better,' said Claverdon to Dick Waldron. 'In an hour we shall be snow-blind.'

'Yes! And we've no means of shutting out the excess of light,' answered Waldron. 'There's no shadow on the snowfield. If only the way would bend valleywards we should find relief.'

The course did begin to descend after a time, but before that happened for Claverdon the brightness had died from the world; he could no longer see the sun, am moved in an opalescence that blurred everything in sight, which indeed was like a veil that shrouded all things a foot away. Waldron was in little better case, and both marched by touch rather than by sight, clinging to the ponies, eyelids closed to exclude the intolerable glare, and Nima-Tashi was left to find the way. Long before the end of the march the two white men were temporarily blind; and even when they passed into the shade of a deep valley they found little relief. Claverdon would have camped, but there was no means of making a fire, and a bitter wind blowing from the heights chilled them to the bone, warning them of the danger that waited them if they rested fireless in the bitter cold.

'We will go forward,' said Nima. 'There will be shelter in that strange house.'

The way began to ascend again, and suddenly the Tibetan stopped.

'What is it?' asked Claverdon quickly.

'An odd mound in the snow,' answered Nima, and to Claverdon's ears came a sound of some one scraping away the snow.  After a little time the Tibetan spoke again: 'There is a pony there and a man— both dead of the cold. Let us go on This is an ill place to linger.'

They moved forward, and ten minutes later Nima called out:  'Two more mounds. This is a very graveyard. If we halt here and the snow blows from the heights we also should die. Far above I see the snow-banners in the wind.'

Spurred by sheer necessity of finding shelter, they marched on, and presently, leaving the valley, mounted a slope at the crest of which Nima cried out exultantly: 'Hail, the jewel! We arrive! My friend; rememberest thou the cleft where the pony stuck as we fled from the death of the Gong?  It lies ahead. Maybe it will be well if I go forward and spy on the place?'

'Yes, but be careful, Nima. Remember two of us are almost helpless.'

'Have no fear! I shall not put my head in the way of the wolves. I shall return quickly.'

Claverdon stood waiting, listening_ for what seemed quite an intolerable time, his apprehension mounting with every moment that passed. Then he heard the Tibetan come whistling through the cleft and a moment later caught his laughing shout:

'The God of Luck is with us. The place stands as empty as last year's nest.'

Claverdon gave an ejaculation of relief, and all moved forward through the cleft towards the house with the gong. The ponies were taken inside, and the travellers crowded in one room, Claverdon and his friend being led to a sleeping-bench that they might rest in comfort.

Suddenly Narani cried out:

'This room is warm!'

Claverdon heard her move quickly, and then she cried again: 'The ashes here are not yet cold.'

'By the jewel, that is true,' shouted Nima. 'Yet but for us the place is empty, I swear. Some man must have been and passed on, leaving the fire alight.'

He turned and left the room, and with ears straining Claverdon heard him pass through the house and open the door on the farther side. After a little time he returned and gave news of a discovery.

'There are the steps of three men in the snow on the further side. They go towards the nullah, up which we came when first we journeyed hither. Some travellers who have passed this way I should say. I will kindle a fire and we will eat and then sleep.'

But for a long time sleep was denied to Claverdon. His eyes, which Narani had bandaged to shut out the glare of the fire, were extremely painful, and a vague apprehension which troubled his mind helped his wakefulness; but when three hours or more had passed, his chin fell upon his breast and he drifted into slumber.

He awoke suddenly, very conscious of cold. A wind was moaning round the house; but in the room all was still and it was easy guessing that all, save himself, slept profoundly. He could see nothing, but he had a thought that the room had grown very draughty; but dismissing it, as a fancy, he began to nod once more and slid again into dreamful sleep out of which he started to intense wakefulness with a startling sound in his ears— the deep reverberation of a gong!

His first thought was that it was part of his dreams, but almost in the same instant of time he knew that it was not; for he heard a door crash, and the sound of feet in the passage outside the room. Someone veritably had struck the gong of death.

He shouted to warn his friends, and tore at the bandage over his eyes. As it came away his eyes became aware of a light in the doorway which seared them as with red-hot iron, bringing tears of pain. Instinctively he closed his eyes again, but not before he had glimpsed dimly the form of a man in the doorway— whose identity he could only guess. A harsh laugh of triumph sounded through the blackness in which he sat; and a voice spoke with savage peremptoriness— a voice that he recognised for the Red Cossack's.

'Keep still, fools! The first who moves―'

The words were checked by a shout from Nima-Tashi. 'By the gods―'

There followed sounds— first of a leaping man, then the crack of a pistol, succeeded by a double fall. A noise of struggling men, snarling like wolves, and rolling over on the floor came to Claverdon, in the midst of which he heard Melnikoff shout a gasping order:—

'Get the man — and the woman!'

He flung himself to his feet and stood swaying.

The light which he had seen no longer pained his eyes, and he divined that it had been extinguished by the fall of the man who had held it. There was but the faintest light from the dying fire— not sufficient to trouble his eyes; and indistinctly he saw two men rush into the room. He moved quickly and struck ferociously at the shadowy one in front of him. The shadow went down with a crash, and as it did so he heard Narani cry out:—

'Oh, my beloved! Help!'

He could not see her, but trampling on the fallen men as he went, he groped his way swiftly towards the doorway, and readied it in time to intercept a big man with a burden in his arms.

'Waldron!' he roared as he strove to drag the struggling woman from the ravisher's arms.

'Coming,' answered Waldron.

Two seconds later he felt the man squirm and release Narani, whom he himself seized and lifted clear of the struggling men in the doorway. Then there came Nima-Tashi's voice, gasping, but triumphant—

'Oh, my friend―'

'Here!' he shouted, and as he did so the hill-man who had seized Narani broke from Waldron's hold and fled the house.

'Steady, Nima!' shouted Waldron in quick warning, and the Tibetan gave a grunting laugh.

'Curse this darkness! One should have bat's eyes!'

A match scraped, and for one brief moment before the pain induced by the light made him close his eyes tightly, Claverdon saw Narani's face, white and tense, her eyes glowing. He held her close, and shouted to the Tibetan—

'Are we all here?'

'Aye, my friend, and two more than all,' came the chuckling answer. 'But one I vow is meat for the kites.'

Claverdon opened his eyes again just in time to see the last flicker of the match before it went out. 'There is a lantern somewhere, Nima. One of those rascals had it. If you can find it?'

'Aye! 'Twill be useful.'

Another match scraped, then followed a grunt of satisfaction. 'The lantern is here. I will light it... There.'

Risking the intense pain that he knew must follow Claverdon, opened his eyes; and gave one swift look round. That hurrying glance revealed two men lying on the floor, one unconscious, the other with now sightless eyes staring upward, and a look on his dead face which made the beholder shudder. He closed his eyes again and pressed his hands upon them to repress, if possible, the stabbing pain. Then he asked in a voice which shook a little—

'He is dead, Nima?'

'As a stone. He will trouble us no more.'

'Take him outside.'

'Aye. He is carrion— now! And the evil that was in him will surely poison the ravens that peck him.'

'Be careful. That man who fled―'

'Is fleeing still. Never fear.'

The Tibetan carried Melnikoff outside the house, and after a little time returned with a question on his lips.

'Remains this other one. He begins to stir. Shall I fling him down the nullah?'

'No. Carry him out to the snow. He was but a tool of the Cossack's. When he revives he will make himself scarce.'

'Without doubt. And he will perish in the snow unless he can reach a village. He can be left to the devils of these hills.'

It was some time before the Tibetan returned, and when he did he explained the delay cheerfully.

'That bandit found his senses as we went out into the night. So I showed him the Red Cossack, holding him by the neck close that he might, see that his master's spirit had gone to Gehenna. Then I set him to the gap behind the house and bade him begone. He will take the news of the Russian's death, and there will be an end of the jehad that was planned.'

'Yes!... And thou has earned gratitude, Nima. Knowest thou that the man whom the Cossack shot in The Gate was Narani's brother?'

'By the Holy One! No!'

'Yet it was so. We shall be in thy debt―'

'There are no debts between friends! But when thou takest thy woman to wife after the fashion of thy countrymen I would have the felicity of standing by.'

'That is a small thing; but who told thee?'

'Mine eyes! Long before we reached Ringing Sands. Rememberest thou the night when thy woman came back to warn thee in the nullah that lies below this strange house? She talked in riddles then; but there was one of which we spoke together, and that was that Paradise was for the third man. That patched-eyed Cossack was the first, and he is with the devils who sired him; the second was Rahman Ali, whose wings are clipped; and thou wert the third man, who―'

'You saw that, then?' laughed Claverdon. 'Before I knew?'

'I saw thine eyes— also Narani's; also I remembered how she had been anxious for thy life; and it was easy to read the signs. Again, when one like thy woman puts forth her woman's power―'

'Nima!' It was Narani's voice that cried in friendly protest; but the Tibetan laughed and continued. 'Then the strongest of us is water.'

'True, my friend,' laughed Claverdon.

'True,' echoed Narani also, with a laugh. 'But I did not know thou wert so wise. Almost one might think that the words were a confession.'

'Ho-o!' laughed Nima. 'It is not I alone am wise... There was a woman once, when I was a lama. She was in a nunnery, and for her I was driven from my lamasery, and the nun was hidden in another nunnery deep in my native hills. But I found her, and to-day she nurses my son at my house at Che-to, which is by The Gate of Tibet. Therefore am I wise in these things— with the wisdom of experience.'

'Nima-the-Wise,' cried Narani. 'for that wife of thine, there shall be such a jewel―'

'To adorn the sun?' laughed the Tibetan.

'And for thyself,' declared Claverdon, 'when we take Rahman Ali there to Colonel Cavenagh at Delhi there will be rewards.'

'Rewards! Poof! What reward like that of the good chance to live a man's life, my friend?'

'None!' agreed Claverdon heartily, whilst from Waldron, seated by the girl whom he had snatched from barbaric hands, came emphatic testimony.

'And that is golden truth!'

SIX DAYS later, worn by hard travel with winter marching at their heels, they entered Baltit, in broad morning, and in the snowy street met one who walked arrogantly, and carried himself as if already he sat upon a Thum's throne.

As he saw the little cavalcade he stopped suddenly like a man who had seen the writhing hair of Medusa. His eyes were fixed upon Rahman Ali in stony wonder. Claverdon marked him and recognised him for the Wazir who had talked with Melnikoff on a night when he himself had played eavesdropper.

'What is this?' broke out the man fiercely, but with a note in his voice that proclaimed apprehension.

'Is there need to ask?' retorted Claverdon curtly. 'Or has not the news come down the passes?'

'News? What news?'

'The news that the manifestation of the Imam at Ringing Sands did not take place, and that the man who talked with the Red Cossack about a Thum's throne that he coveted is baulked of his desire— as also of another.'

The native's apprehension flamed in his eyes as he stared at the speaker, then he broke out —

'In Allah's name, who art thou?'

For a moment Claverdon delayed his reply. Wild things are always possible in the hills, and it was perhaps wise not to push a disappointed man too far. Then he caught sight of a man coming up the street— a man in uniform with two other men at his heels. He smiled suddenly, and delayed no longer.

'I? — I am a man whose throat was tickled by the smoke that night when―'

'Sheitan! Thou art the listener of the roof?'

'Aye! And here comes one who will be glad to hear what I heard.  Anderton!'

The native turned swiftly, saw the man in uniform and the two men with him, and with a sharp oath fled up the street. Claverdon laughed a little grimly as the officer, halting, stared at him and his little party in wonder.

'Who are you? Why does the Wazir here run as if the hounds of hell were at his heels?'

'To save his neck, maybe. He flees from the Nemesis of ambition gone awry,' said Claverdon with a laugh. 'And in an hour you will not find him in the town.'

'In God's name who are you, man— and these?'

'You should recognise Miss Wargrave―'

'Miss Wargrave! Great Harry! You don't mean―'

'But I do! And this is Waldron; and that man on the pony is Rahman Ali―'

'Phew! There've been hectic rumours about him.'

'All true; and all— busted! I think I'll borrow yourself and your men. The sooner he is under lock and key the better. These hill-men are apt to kindle.'

'But who are you? For the Lord's sake, answer, man!'

Claverdon laughed. 'I am Claverdon, fresh from Ringing Sands.'

'Claverdon!' The man's surprise was comic. 'I'd' never have known you in a year. And from Ringing Sands? Lord! what a yarn you must have to tell! The name of that place has had us on the guess for weeks— and on the jump, too! The chief will be delirious when he sees you— and Rahman Ali, not to mention Miss Wargrave here. But it is time to march. These ore a curious folk and their vice needs discouragement. Let us go, before the rabble recognises Ali. That might have its inconveniences just now.'

They moved on, watched by many curious eyes, and half an hour later Claverdon told the story of The Gate of Ringing Sands for the first time to a man young as himself, but with a wide experience of the Border. When he finished the other spoke crisply:—

'Congratulations, Claverdon. You've done a big thing! We've heard whispers, rumours of Lord-knows-what trouble coming, but we hadn't a notion what form it was to take.... But you've scotched that for good. And to have lifted Rahman Ali out of the hills beyond is an achievement. It will be a lesson to every cockerel in the hills who is inclined to crow too loudly... Heavens, man, I envy you. You've ironed out the biggest trouble that's promised for years. It's odds that we here would all have been scuppered if you had failed!'

A MONTH LATER in Cavenagh's office at Delhi, he told the story a second time, with Narani by the window for a second hearer.

Cavenagh, a good listener, did not interrupt until the very end. Then he ejaculated:— 'Great! .... And that Bolshevik Cossack is dead? That's a good thing for High Asia! And Rahman Ali's a prisoner? That means peace in the outer marches! And Miss Wargrave is safe and the jehad is frosted― that stands for peace of mind for the Sirkar and for the big-wigs at home. If I may say so, it's a pretty considerable achievement, my son.'

'Thank, you, sir! May I ask a question?'

'Permission granted!' laughed Cavenagh. 'You've earned it.'

Claverdon glanced at Narani, who was looking out of the window.

'Did you know that Narani was working with us, when I told you of my visit to her, before I went North?'

Cavenagh laughed. 'I had a notion. Certain information reached me anonymously at times, and made me curious as to its source. I went to some trouble to find out the said source―'

'You found out?' broke in Narani.

'Yes!' The Colonel laughed. 'In my safe there I have a fairly complete dossier relative to the Countess Olga Andrevitch. Naturally, when I learned the truth I lay low, and did not interfere with your—shall we say— benevolent neutrality?'

'You knew Rahman Ali was a friend of mine?'

'I knew you were acquaintances, answered the Colonel smilingly.

'You knew that I encouraged his mad aspirations?'

'Heavens, no! Countess.'

'I did. He confided in me, and I encouraged him— that I might ruin Ivan Melnikoff.'

'As agent provocateur! A venial sin — from the point of view Claverdon has afforded me to-day.'

'I want Rahman Ali's life. I betrayed him— but I do not want him to die. And I have that promise from―' She looked at Claverdon, who spoke promptly.

'That is so, sir. The promise was made in difficult circumstances. I think it should be honoured.'

'You have some excuse for asking— you two! I think we might find a domicile for him in Burma. I will do what I can. I am no subscriber to the doctrine of Vae Victis.... Anything else?'

'Yes, sir. I think I should like the usual leave.'

'Usual leave?'

'Yes, sir!' Claverdon laughed. 'You said you had the Countess's dossier— a fairly complete one, I think you said?'

'Yes, that is so.'

'Does it include the information that she is shortly to change her name?'

'Great Jove! You don't say?' The Colonel left his chair with a bound.

'Congratulations, Countess! Congratulations, Louis! Lor'―' He broke off and laughed. 'You two... you two... you strike me dumb!'

'We thought you might give the bride away.'

'Of course! Of course! I don't know anything of the business. But that's a detail. I can learn like any other man.'

Claverdon laughed.

'The ceremonial details are set forth in the prayer-book. Waldron's at the club, cramming the part of best man, and Miss Wargrave is to be a solitary bridesmaid.'

'All nicely planned! Hey? And that big ruffian Nima-Tashi, what part is allotted to him?'

'A watching brief! He's too primitive. If he opened his mouth, heaven knows what might come forth. But he is a man of the very best, according to his lights, and―'

'Top-hole!' agreed Cavenagh. 'If he's at the feast I'll make him tell the story of this romance. Lord,' it will be worth hearing!'

And it surely was— as Nima-Tashi told it.

The End.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20