"Give me three guesses—no, two. One—he's raising hell with all the police in Delhi. Two—he's at the scene of the murder, doing detective work on his own. I heard he'd driven away—and, anyhow, it's his squadron. Man's probably his second cousin, twenty or thirty times removed."
"Send somebody to find him!" ordered Kirby.
"Say you want to have a word with him?"
Kirby nodded, and Warrington swaggered out, humming to himself exactly as he hoped to be humming when his last grim call should come, the incarnation of efficiency, awake and very glad. A certain number of seconds after he had gone two mounted troopers clattered out toward the bazaar. Ten minutes later Warrington returned.
"D Squadron's squattin' on its hunkers in rings an' lookin' gloomy," he said, as if he were announcing some good news that had a touch of humor in it. "By the look of 'em you'd say they'd been passed over for active service and were meditatin' matrimony."
"By gad, Warrington! You don't know how near that guess is to the truth!"
Kirby's lips were smiling, but his voice was hard. Warrington glanced quickly at him once and then looked serious.
"You mean—"
"Yes," said Kirby.
"Has it broken yet?"