"I've travelled a bit," continued Farrell, "and have seen something of the courts of Europe, but I've yet to meet a diplomat who's peer to the Rajput. You hear a great deal about the astuteness of the Russians and the yellow races, and a Greek or Turk can lie with a fairly straight face when he sees a profit in deception, but none of them is to be classed with these people. If we English ever decide to let India rule herself, her diplomatic corps will be recruited exclusively from the flower of Rajputana's chivalry."
"I'll back Salig Singh against the field," said Raikes grimly; "he'll be dean of the corps, when that time comes. He'd rather conspire than fight, and the Rajputs—of course you know—are a warrior caste. I've a notion"—the Resident leaned back and searched the shadows for an eavesdropper—"I've a notion," he continued, lowering his voice, "that the Rana has got himself in rather deep in some rascality or other, and wants to get out before he's put out. There's bazaar gossip…. Hmm! Do you speak French, Mr. Amber?"
"A little," said Amber in that tongue. "And I," nodded the missionary.
The talk continued in the language of diplomacy.
"Bazaar gossip——?" Farrell repeated enquiringly.
"There have been a number of deaths from cholera in the Palace lately, the grand vizier's amongst them."
"White arsenic cholera?"
"That, and the hemp poison kind."
"Refractory vizier?" questioned Farrell. "The kind that wants to retrench and institute reforms—railways and metalled roads and so forth?"
"No; he was quite suited to his master. But the bazaar says Naraini took a dislike to him for one reason or another."
"Naraini?" queried Amber.