“The same as you always do in such a case, Grover. Go through with it. I see your idea.”
The sound of the Voice of Doom, he asserted, was explained. There really had been such a natural phenomenon, caused by wind let into a tunnel and making the sounds through the shape like a whistle in the tunnel and in the Buddha image.
“But how did it get on the records?”
Roger was equally unable to answer that.
“Besides,” Grover insisted, “those priests are curious folk. You saw the gem replaced, and to white people that would end the need for stalking a culprit; but they seem bent on punishing people.”
“‘Seem’?” Roger caught the present tense.
“Why, your own letter says so.”
“My—which letter?”
“The last one you wrote. It came yesterday.”
Grover drew from the drawer an envelope postmarked, as Roger saw, from Bombay. They had come on down the caravan trails, until they had met an English airplane that had been arranged for. It had “set down” on the plain. In that they had flown to India, leaving their stuff to be brought along by the next caravan and shipped home.