the same, Max, I don’t think that you have treated me quite fairly,” protested Carlyle, getting over his first surprise and passing to a sense of injury. “Here we are and I know nothing, absolutely nothing, of the whole affair.”
“We both have our ideas of pleasantry, Louis,” replied Carrados genially. “But I dare say you are right and perhaps there is still time to atone.” In the fewest possible words he outlined the course of his investigations. “And now you know all that is to be known until Drishna arrives.”
“But will he come?” questioned Carlyle doubtfully. “He may be suspicious.”
“Yes, he will be suspicious.”
“Then he will not come.”
“On the contrary, Louis, he will come because my letter will make him suspicious. He is coming; otherwise Parkinson would have telephoned me at once and we should have had to take other measures.”
“What did you say, Max?” asked Carlyle curiously.
“I wrote that I was anxious to discuss an Indo-Scythian inscription with him, and sent my car in the hope that he would be able to oblige me.”
“But is he interested in Indo-Scythian inscriptions?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” admitted Carrados, and Mr Carlyle was throwing up his hands in despair when the sound of a motor car wheels softly kissing the gravel surface of the drive outside brought him to his feet.
“By gad, you are right, Max!” he exclaimed, peeping through the curtains. “There is a man inside.”
“Mr Drishna,” announced Parkinson, a minute later.
The visitor came into the room with leisurely self-possession that might have been real or a desperate assumption. He was a slightly built young man of about twenty-five, with black hair and eyes, a small, carefully trained moustache, and a dark olive skin. His physiognomy was not displeasing, but his expression had a harsh and supercilious tinge. In attire he erred towards the immaculately spruce.
“Mr Carrados?” he said inquiringly.
Carrados, who had risen, bowed slightly without offering his hand.
“This gentleman,” he said, indicating his friend, “is Mr Carlyle, the celebrated private detective.”
The Indian shot a very sharp glance at the object of this description. Then he sat down.
“You wrote me a letter, Mr Carrados,” he remarked, in English that scarcely betrayed any foreign origin, “a rather curious letter, I may say. You asked me about an ancient inscription. I know nothing of antiquities; but I thought, as you had sent, that it would be more courteous if I came and explained this to you.”
“That was the object of my letter,” replied Carrados.
“You wished to see me?” said Drishna, unable to stand the ordeal of the silence that Carrados imposed after his remark.
“When you left Miss Chubb’s house you left a ruler behind.” One lay on the desk by Carrados and he took it up as he spoke.
“I don’t understand what you are talking about,” said Drishna guardedly. “You are making some mistake.”
“The ruler was marked at four and seven-eighths inches—the measure of the glass of the signal lamp outside.”
The unfortunate young man was unable to repress a start. His face lost its healthy tone. Then, with a sudden impulse, he made a step forward and snatched the object from Carrados’s hand.
“If it is mine I have a right to it,” he exclaimed, snapping the ruler in two and throwing it on to the back of the blazing fire. “It is nothing.”
“Pardon me, I did not say that the one you have so impetuously disposed of was yours. As a matter of fact, it was mine. Yours is—elsewhere.”
“Wherever it is you have no right to it if it is mine,” panted Drishna, with rising excitement. “You are a thief, Mr Carrados. I will not stay any longer here.”
He jumped up and turned towards the door. Carlyle made a step forward, but the precaution was unnecessary.
“One moment, Mr Drishna,” interposed Carrados, in his smoothest tones. “It is a pity, after you have come so far, to leave without hearing of my investigations in the neighbourhood of Shaftesbury Avenue.”
Drishna sat down again.
“As you like,” he muttered. “It does not interest me.”
“I wanted to obtain a lamp of a certain pattern,” continued Carrados. “It seemed to me that the simplest explanation would be to say that I wanted it for a motor car. Naturally I went to Long Acre. At the first shop I said: ‘Wasn’t it here that a friend of mine, an Indian gentleman, recently had a lamp made with a green glass that was nearly five inches across?’ No, it was not there but they could make me one. At the next shop the same; at the third, and fourth, and so on. Finally my persistence was rewarded. I found the place where the lamp had been made, and at the cost of ordering another I obtained all the details I wanted. It was news to them, the shopman informed me, that in some parts of India green was the danger colour and therefore tail lamps had to show a green light. The incident made some impression on him and he would be able to identify their customer—who paid in advance and gave no address—among a thousand of his countrymen. Do I succeed in interesting you, Mr Drishna?”
“Do you?” replied Drishna, with a languid yawn. “Do I look interested?”
“You must make allowance for my unfortunate blindness,” apologized Carrados, with grim irony.
“Blindness!” exclaimed Drishna, dropping his affectation of unconcern as though electrified by the word, “do you mean—really blind—that you do not see me?”
“Alas, no,” admitted Carrados.
The Indian withdrew his right hand from his coat pocket and with a tragic gesture flung a heavy revolver down on the table between them.
“I have had you covered all the time, Mr Carrados, and if I had wished to go and you or your friend had raised a hand to stop me, it would have been at the peril of your lives,” he said, in a voice of melancholy triumph. “But what is the use of defying fate, and who successfully evades his destiny? A month ago I went to see one of our people who reads the future and sought to know the course of certain events. ‘You need fear no human eye,’ was the message given to me. Then she added: ‘But when the sightless sees the unseen, make your peace with Yama.’ And I thought she spoke of the Great Hereafter!”
“This amounts to an admission of your guilt,” exclaimed Mr Carlyle practically.
“I bow to the decree of fate,” replied Drishna. “And it is fitting to the universal irony of existence that a blind man should be the instrument. I don’t imagine, Mr Carlyle,” he added maliciously, “that you, with your eyes, would ever have brought that result about.”
“You are a very cold-blooded young scoundrel, sir!” retorted Mr Carlyle. “Good heavens! do you realize that
