illion ways. It had been the
Prince's plan (for he knew well enough that Mahommed Gunga had left a
man behind) to allow the escape to start; then it would have been an
easy matter to arrange an ambush--to kill Ali Partab--and to pretend to
ride to the rescue. Once rescued, Miss McClean and her father would be
almost completely at his mercy, for they would not be able to accuse him
of anything but friendliness, and would be obliged to return to whatever
haven of safety he cared to offer them. Once in his palace of their own
consent, they would have had to stay there until the rising of the
whole of India put an end to any chance of interference from the British
Government.

But now there was no Ali Partab outside to try to escort them to
some place of safety; therefore, there was little chance that the
missionaries would try to make a bolt. Instead of being in the position
of a cat that watches silently and springs when the mouse breaks cover,
he was in the unenviable condition now of being forced to make the first
move. Over and over again he cursed the men who had made Ali Partab
prisoner, and over and over again: he wondered how--by all the gods of
all the multitudinous Hindoo mythology--how, when, and by what stroke
of genius he could make use of the stiff-chinned Rangar and convert him
from being a rankling thorn into a useful aid.

He dared not poison him--yet. For the same reason he dared not put him
to the torture, to discover, or try to discover, what Mahommed Gunga's
real leanings were in the matter of loyalty to the Raj or otherwise. He
dared not let the man go, for forgiveness is not one of the virtues
held in high esteem by men of Ali Partab's race, and wrongful arrest is
considered ground enough for a feud to the death. It seemed he did not
dare do anything!

He racked his opium-dulled brain for a suspicion of a plan that
might help solve the difficulty, until his eye--wandering around the
courtyard--fell on the black shape of a woman. She was old and bent and
she was busied, with a handful of dry twigs, pretending to sweep around
the stables.

"Who is that mother of corruption?" demanded Jaimihr; and a man came
running to him.

"Who is that eyesore? I have never seen her, have I?"

"Highness, she is a beggar woman. She sat by the gate, and pretended
to a power of telling fortunes--which it would seem she does possess in
some degree. It was thought better that she should use her gift in here,
for ou