“Anyhow, we’ve a clear case. Seditious utterances—uncensored play—no permit. Step lively and bring the squad, Williams; we’ll lock ’em all up for the night and find out who they are.”
But an obstinate Bhat-Brahman stood in Mr. Williams’ way and spoke in English, curtly:
“No, you don’t! I’m detailed to this investigation by McGregor! I won’t have police interference! Keep your constables out of sight!”
“Who are you?” asked the senior officer, pushing himself forward.
“Never you mind.”
“Show me your credentials.”
“At your risk! Come with me to the telegraph office if you like and watch me get you transferred to the salt mines! You’ll enjoy a patrol up there—you’ll get one newspaper a month!”
“At least tell me your name.”
“My number is 903,” said Ommony. His number on the Secret Service roster was not 903; but one does not squander truth too lavishly on men who will surely repeat it. He was not anxious that McGregor should have an inkling of his whereabouts. The mere mention of a number was enough; the policemen walked out, abusive of the Secret Service, conscious that the “Bhat-Brahman” was grinning mischievously at their backs.
The Lama saw, but said nothing. That night he directed the departure more leisurely than usual, as if satisfied that Ommony had made him safe from the police; but from that time on he kept himself more than ever aloof, and during two whole months of wandering Ommony did not succeed in having two hundred words with him.