"Very good," Prince Ali laughed. "I was released and sent here by the Lord Protector's agent, the Duke of Gloucester."
"Really," said Brand, sarcastically; "any further revelations?"
"Yes. The price which Ulster pays for your body, the price he pays to Gloucester, is the throne—the throne of the Empire!"
"Anything more?"
"At all hazards I came to warn you of this trap, and you walk blindly into it. That bell condemns you to death! Quick,"—Prince Ali started to his feet—"there may be time. At the end of this corridor there's a door to the upper terrace—when your yacht comes back you can signal. I can save you yet!"
"Your price?"
"India."
"Sit down, Prince Ali, sit down, I say! Listen to me," said the master, "you first betrayed poor Ulster to the Russians. Then you betrayed the Queen by this intrigue. Now you would betray the Dictator to me—in order that you may betray your sovereign again, by seizing India. I may have lost my city, my lands and factories, my ships—all that I had, and be here, helpless, at Ulster's mercy."
He looked up at the windows with their loopholed barricades, swung round to face the door from which there was no escape, then turned on Ali of Haidar.
"By the living God, I swear," he cried, "that within a month I'll have you blown from your own guns at the gates of Delhi!"