To have Russia get it now—the indisputable documents—would enable her to start Afghanistan boiling again. The Border States and all India would be embroiled. More than all, the British troops serving in India would be lashed into mutiny by the story of what happened to the men of Colonel Hammond’s regiment—the men who knew all. Yes, Russia could build her great war upon it—the long-prophesied war—and drive her puppets against England for the possession of northern India.
Routledge was filled with shuddering by these thoughts of war, and by the man before him, laughing softly, insanely, and drinking raw whiskey—another Colonel Hammond in the flesh!
“Let me get this straight, Jerry,” he said lightly. “One man steals the documents which tell the whole truth about Shubar Khan, and puts the story in the hands of the Russians——”
“And at what a time!” Cardinegh exclaimed passionately. “When did Abduraman die?”
“Last October. He was a valuable man for the British,” Routledge added thoughtfully. “He held the Pathans and the Afridis from fighting the English, and at the same time managed to avoid angering Russia. He was the man for the Buffer State.”
“His sons are not so valuable.” Cardinegh chuckled. “Abduraman died of a stroke, as the newspapers said. It was a stroke!... When was Cantrell, the British Agent in Kabul, murdered?”
“A month later.”
“When were we all called in from the field and Bhurpal forgotten?”
“A month later still.”
“What a God-given time it was!” the old man exclaimed.