"My God—Roy! Crazy of you! I never thought——"
"Well, I got sick of waiting. I suppose I can come in?" Roy's impatience was the measure of his relief.
Dyán moved back a pace, and, as Roy stepped on to the roof, he carefully closed the door.
"Think—if you had come three minutes earlier! He only left me just now—Chandranath."
"And passed me in the archway," added Roy with his touch of bravado. "I've as much right to be in Delhi—and to vary my costume—as your mysteriously potent friend. It's a free country."
"It is fast becoming—not so free." Dyán lowered his voice, as if afraid he might be overheard. "And you don't consider the trouble it might make—for me."
"How about the trouble you've been making for me? What's wrong?"
Dyán passed a nervous hand across his eyes and forehead. "Come in. It's getting cold out here," he said, in a repressed voice. Roy followed him across the roof top, with its low parapet and vault of darkening sky, up three steps, into an arcaded room, where a log fire burned in the open hearth. Shabby, unrelated bits of furniture gave the place a comfortless air. On a corner table strewn with leaflets and pamphlets ("Poisoned arrows, up to date!" thought Roy), a typewriter reared its hooded head. The sight struck a shaft of pain through him. Arúna's Dyán—son of kings and warriors—turning his one skilful hand to such base uses!
"What's wrong?" he repeated with emphasis. "I want a straight answer, Dyán. I've risked something to get it."
Dyán sat down near a small table, and took his head between his hands. "There is—so much wrong," he said, looking steadily up at Roy. "I am feeling—like a man who wakes too suddenly after much sleepwalking."