Trent nodded. He saw behind the assumed languorous air a keen, searching glance; Kerth was measuring him as he was measuring Kerth. He came to the tentative decision that he wasn't quite sure he liked him.
"Sit down, won't you?"—perfunctorily.
Kerth dropped with lazy grace into a chair and sat with his legs sprawled wide apart. He proffered some of the blackest cheroots Trent had ever seen.
"My Tamils," he explained, with an indolent smile. When the smokes were lighted, he asked: "Just how much do you know of this little party we're about to start, major?"
"As little as possible, I think."
Kerth puffed on his cheroot. "Ever heard of this woman who styles herself the Swaying Cobra?"
"Never."
"Neither have I." A pause. "Of course you've heard of Chavigny?"
Trent's answer was a smile.
"We almost got him the other day, in Delhi. We traced him to a native serai—Queen's Serai; but he eluded us. Left only a few blood-stains on the floor of his room. Blood-stains sometimes tell a lot, but they didn't in this instance. But Chavigny's bottled up in Delhi. Yet"—Kerth smiled—"yet I wouldn't be at all surprised if he pulled the wool over the Department's eyes. Of course you think he's involved in this affair?"