"In some dungeon, mayhap. There all avenues seemed closed up."
"Umballa needs money," said Lal Singh, thoughtfully. "But he will not find it," in afterthought.
"To-morrow?"
"At dawn."
These two men were spiders in that great web of secret service that the British Raj weaves up and down and across Hind, to Persia and Afghanistan, to the borders of the Bear.
Even as Lal Singh picked up his mouthpiece again and Ahmed sallied forth into the bazaars Umballa had brought to him in the armory that company of soldiers who had shown such open mutiny, not against the state but against him.
Gravely he questioned the captain.
"Pay our wages, then, heaven born," said the captain, with veiled insolence. "Pay us, for we have seen not so much as betel money since the last big rains."
"Money," mused Umballa, marking down this gallant captain for death when the time came.
"Ai, money; bright rupees, or, better still, yellow British gold. Pay us!"