'But you might have kept out one. I would give all I possess to be able to go into that ballroom to-night.'
Hoosanee hesitated. 'My master might go in native dress,' he said, 'if he would not betray himself.'
'Would it be possible?'
'It would be easy, my lord. Other Indians of rank have gone in. If my lord gives in his name as the Rajah of Gumilcund, and presents a largesse to the door-keeper, he will certainly be admitted.'
The result was as Hoosanee had predicted. When, an hour later, Tom was borne in a palanquin to the gates of the palace, his embroidered robe and gorgeous turban, with the magnificent fee he presented to the door-keeper, gained him immediate respect. No little to his embarrassment, he was taken straight to the daïs on which sat the Commissioner, surrounded by English officers and grandees of Oude. After the first shock, however, he played his part correctly. Sir Henry, supposing him to be an accredited guest, received him graciously, and conversed with him for a few moments. Then, feeling glad the ordeal was over, he stepped down and set himself to watch the dancers.
With a face like a mask—for he had learned the trick of Oriental passivity—Tom moved about the hall. He was in search of Grace, whom he saw presently dancing in a waltz with an elderly civilian. After they had danced two rounds her partner led her to a seat. Tom passed them, making a low salute, and then stood back, as near as he dared, with his face averted lest Grace should recognise him. Her light whisper penetrated to where he stood.
'Who is that Indian?' she asked.
'I really can't tell you,' answered her companion, 'which is a little curious, for I know all the natives of distinction hereabouts. He was certainly not at the last durbar. I must ask Sir Henry about him.'
'I should like to know,' said Grace. 'He has a fine face——'
'For a native,' broke in her partner.