Ere five minutes were over the new comer rose from the upholstered chair, went to the four doors of the office room, looked round for possible eavesdroppers, closed them, then sate down again; for John Carruthers, the Superintendent of Police, was of the old school. He suspected everybody. In his heart of hearts Horace Alexander loathed him: or rather, his methods; but he had to admit that he was an excellent police officer. Short and stout, he looked as if he had a trace of native blood in him, anyhow, none understood the ways of Indian wickednesses better than he.
"This is serious," he said briefly. "I always told you, sir, you would have to face it some time." Then he paused. "I wonder if anyone realises the relief it will be to our force when the whole show goes off well--as it will do! But there's always that off chance--and here is one----"
"I don't believe it," said Horace Alexander stubbornly; "it is unthinkable, inconceivable----"
John Carruthers raised his shaggy eyebrows. "Nothing, sir, is inconceivable in India. There's a lot of lees in four thousand years of civilisation. So long as it's stagnant, well and good; but if you stir 'em up--However! you don't agree. And this----" he touched the confidential communication--"has got to be seen to."
"Yes! it has got to be seen to--wrong or right," echoed the younger man firmly. Outside, the sunshine shone in sultry drowsy peace; but within the closed office room, the air seemed vibrant, as the two, mutually responsible for so much in their world, looked into each other's eyes in perfect unanimity. So it is often in India nowadays; something has to be done and old and new must combine to the doing of it.
"Hullo! what's up?" asked the Superintendent of Police when, having offered to drive his official superior down to the city, they stepped into the verandah; and then he smiled. "The youngster seems to be enjoying himself, eh!"
Under the sirus trees on the opposite side of the drive were drawn up five old men, headed by Bisvâs, who stood next something that was more like a monkey than a man; for Bhim Singh, even when he had been the most swaggering havildar in a Ghurka regiment, had never been tall, and was now almost incredibly shrunken and old. But his eyes still looked out sharp and bright from his wizened face and his military salute shot out smartly at the sight of the masters.
"It is all old Bisvâs' fault," excused Rex's father, giving a disturbed look at his son and heir, who--with the gilt paper circlet still on his fuzzy head--was apparently drilling the ancient warriors, "I've told my wife that it's a mistake, but you see, Bisvâs looked after my grandfather when they were kids together, and so----"
"And so," interrupted John Carruthers with a chuckle, "you have the most valuable asset in the world! If I were you I would encourage it! Good Lord! man!----" he forgot etiquette for the moment--"that sort of thing is the safety of--of everything."
So the two men drove off to the office, to confer secretly with other good men and true, and the child, with the gold circlet on his fuzzy hair, stood in the half shade, half shine of the sirus trees, and dressed his army autocratically. And the old warriors--there was Bisvâs who had fought at Sobraon, and Bhim Singh who had fought everywhere indiscriminately for sheer love of fighting, and old Imân, the hair of whose body still stood on end as he told tales of how he had waged war for the Sirkar against his own brothers in Mutiny time, and Pir Khan, Yusufzai, who still talked of Nikalseyn sahib as if he were not dead, and last but not least, most ancient of all, a nameless fossil of humanity called by the others "Baba" (father), who bewailed the fact that he had not been at both sieges of Bhurtpore--these all obeyed the child's orders, and nodded and winked and swore that he was the living spit and image of "Gineral Jullunder Jullunder Sahib Bahadur," who had led them to victory again and again. The smallest cavalry officer in Jân Kampâni's army; but the bravest and the best loved!