Sunset was spreading a fan of flamingo plumes above Meera, a native village to the northward of Gaya, when Arnold Trent (unaware that Destiny had been hovering over him since Dana Charteris found the scrap of paper, in Delhi, three days before) clattered out of the jungle and along the nearly deserted main street. At the council-tree, where the headman of the village sat and chewed betel-leaf, he drew rein, listening to a low, eerie wailing that came from one of the whitewashed houses.
"It is Chatterjee," volunteered the headman. "His Ratanamma is dead, Dakktar Sahib."
Trent swung down from his saddle. "When did it happen, Ranjeet Singh?"
"Not an hour past, Dakktar Sahib."
Trent's eyes roved up and down the street. "Where's everybody? Meera looks as if a plague had struck it."
Ranjeet Singh, who was a Jain, spat contemptuously.
"Some vermin-ridden priests from Tibet are at the Sacred Bo-tree," he explained, "and the worshippers of Gaudama have swarmed thither, like flies to a dung-feast!"
Trent smiled slightly and moved toward one of the whitewashed houses, swinging along with the leisurely, easy stride of one poised on well-controlled muscles. At the door he paused. It was dark within, and a breath of offal and man-reek greeted him. After a moment he saw, against the darkness, the pale silhouette of a white-clad figure. From this figure came the eerie wails.
"Chatterjee!" Trent called.
The silhouette ceased wailing long enough to quaver: "Dakktar Sahib!"