But the humour of the situation seemed to be lost upon the Rajput.
In the brief wait that followed Amber shifted his position to one wherefrom he could command both the doorway and Salig Singh; his solicitude, however, was without apparent warrant; nothing happened to justify him of his vigilance. Without undue delay the servant returned with a light cloak and the announcement that the ghari was in waiting.
His offer to help the American don the garment was graciously declined. "I've a fancy to have my arms free for the present," Amber explained; "I can get it on by myself in the ghari." He took the cloak over his left arm. "I'm ready; lead on!" he said, and with a graceful wave of the pistol bowed Salig Singh out of the cellar.
Moto leading with the light, they proceeded in silence down a musty but deserted passage, Amber bringing up the rear with his heart in his mouth and his finger nervous upon the trigger. After a little the passage turned and discovered a door open to the street. Beyond this a ghari could be seen.
Amber civilly insisted that both the servant and his master leave the house before him, but, once outside, he made a wary detour and got between them and the waiting conveyance. Then, "It's kind of you, Salig Singh," he said; "I'm properly grateful. I'll say this for you: you play the game fairly when anybody calls your attention to the rules. Good-night to you—and, I say, be kind enough to shut the door as you go in. I'll just wait until you do."
The Rajput found no answer; conceivably, his chagrin was intense. With a curt nod he turned and reentered the house, Moto following. The door closed and Amber jumped briskly into the ghari.
"Home, James," he told the ghariwallah, in great conceit with himself.
"I mean, the Great Eastern Hotel—and juldee jao!"
The driver wrapped a whiplash round the corrugated flanks of his horse and the ghari turned the corner with gratifying speed. In half a minute they were in the Chitpur Road. In fifteen they drew up before the hotel.
It was after midnight and the city had begun to quiet down, but Old Court House Street was still populous with carriages and pedestrians, black and tan and white. There was a Viceregal function of some sort towards in the Government House, and broughams and victorias, coaches, hansoms, and coupes, with lamps alight and liveried coachmen—turn-outs groomed to the last degree of smartness—crowded the thoroughfare to the peril and discomfort of the casual ghari. The scene was unbelievably brilliant. Amber felt like rubbing his eyes. Here were sidewalks, pavements, throbbing electric arcs, Englishmen in evening dress, fair Englishwomen in dainty gowns and pretty wraps, the hum of English voices, the very smell of civilisation. And back there, just across the border he had so recently crossed, still reigned the midnight of the Orient, glamorous with the glamour of the Arabian Nights, dreadful with its dumb menace, its atmosphere of plot and counterplot, mutiny, treason, intrigue, and death. Here, a little island of life and light and gay, heedless laughter; there, all round it, pressing close, silence and impenetrable darkness, like some dark sea of death lapping its shores….
In a cold sweat of horror Amber got out of the vehicle and paid his fare. As he turned he discovered an uniformed policeman stalking to and fro before the hotel, symbol of the sane power that ruled the land. Amber was torn by an impulse to throw himself upon the man and shriek aloud his tale of terror—to turn and scream warning in the ears of those who lived so lightly on the lip of Hell….