Trent's eyes followed the spiral of smoke from his cheroot.
"He might be," was the slow reply, "and, again, he might not. What does Sir Francis think?"
A wry smile. "He rarely confides in the Department. At any rate, I don't fancy we'll encounter this Chavigny. You know he's been running at large under the name of Leroux—Gilbert Leroux. Remember that; might be useful some time. If you want my opinion—But I'm sure you don't. Now, as for this Swaying Cobra—"
But he was interrupted as a porter appeared and salaamed.
"Major Trent Sahib?" he enquired.
Trent nodded and received an envelope with his name written upon it.
"Pardon me"—this to Kerth as he tore off the end.
The missive was written in English, in feminine handwriting, and carried a faint, illusive odor—that of sandalwood.
GREETINGS!
I, the Swaying Cobra, welcome you to the Sacred City and beg the honor of a visit from you to-night. If you will be at the shop of Abdul Kerim, in the Sadar Bazaar, at eight-thirty o'clock, my trusted servant, Chandra Lal, will meet you and conduct you to my humble dwelling.
Your faithful servant,
THE SWAYING COBRA
When he had read it, he handed it to Kerth, who let his eyes run down the page and smiled.