Ommony did go straight to McGregor but he and Diana, his enormous wolf-hound, walked and club bets had to be called off because there was no cab-driver from whom the chuprassi[1] could bludgeon information.

Neither his nor Diana’s temper was improved by the behavior of the crowd. The dog’s size and apparent ferocity cleared a course, but that convenience was not so pleasant as the manners of twenty years ago, when men made way for an Englishman without hesitation—without dreaming of doing anything else.

The thrice-breathed air of Delhi gave him melancholia. It was not agreeable to see men spit with calculated insolence. The heat made the sweat drip from his beard on to the bosom of a new silk shirt. The smell of over-civilized, unnaturally clothed humans was nauseating. By the time he reached an unimaginably ugly, rawly new administration building he felt about as sweetly reasonable as a dog with hydrophobia, and was tired, with feet accustomed to the softness, and ears used to the silence, of long jungle lanes.

However, his spirits rose as he approached the steps. He may have made a signal, because the moment the chuprassi saw him he straightened himself suddenly and ran before him, up-stairs and along a corridor. By the time Ommony reached a door with no name on it, at the far end of the building, the chuprassi was waiting to open it—had already done the announcing—had already seen a said-to-be important personage shown out with, scant excuses through another door. The chuprassi’s salaam was that of a worshiper of secrets, to a man who knows secrets and can keep them; there is no more marrow-deep obeisance in the world than that.

And now no ceremony. The office door clicked softly with a spring-lock and shut out the world that bows and scrapes to hide its enmity and spits to disguise self-conscious meanness. A man sat at a desk and grinned.

“Sit. Smoke. Take your coat off. Sun in your eyes? Try the other chair. Dog need water? Give her some out of the filter. Now—”

John McGregor passed cigars and turned his back toward a laden desk. He was a middle-sized, middle-aged man with snow-white hair in a crisp mass, that would have been curly if he had let it grow long enough. His white mustache made him look older than his years, but his skin was young and reddish, although that again was offset by crow’s-feet at the corners of noticeably dark-gray eyes. His hands looked like a conjurer’s; he could do anything with them, even to keeping them perfectly still.

“So you’ve actually turned in your resignation? We grow!” he remarked, laughing. “Everything grows—except me; I’m in the same old rut. I’ll get the ax—get pensioned some day—dreadful fate! Did you have your interview with Jenkins? What happened? I can see you had the best of it—but how?”

Ommony laid three letters on the desk—purple ink on faded paper, in a woman’s handwriting. McGregor laughed aloud—one bark, like the cry of a fox that scents its quarry on the fluke of a changing wind.

“Perfect!” he remarked, picking up the letters and beginning to read the top one. “Did you blackmail him?”

“I did.”

“I could have saved you that trouble, you know. I could have ‘broke’ him. He deserves it,” said McGregor, knitting his brows over the letter in his hand. “Man, man, he certainly deserves it!”

“If we all got our deserts the world ’ud stand still.” Ommony chose a cigar and bit the end off. “He’s a more than half-efficient bureaucrat. Let India suck him dry and spew him forth presently to end his days at Surbiton or Cheltenham.”

McGregor went on reading, holding his breath. “Have you read these?” he asked suddenly.

Ommony nodded. McGregor chewed at his mustache and made noises with his teeth that brought Diana’s ears up, cocked alertly.

“Man, they’re pitiful! Imagine a brute like Jenkins having such a hold on any one—and he—good God! He ought to have been hanged—no, that’s too good for him! I suppose there’s no human law that covers such a case.”

“None,” Ommony answered grimly. “But I’m pious. I think there’s a Higher Law that adjusts that sort of thing eventually. If not, I’d have killed the brute myself.”

“Listen to this.”

“Don’t read ’em aloud, Mac. It’s sacrilege. And I’m raw. It was at least partly my fault.”

“Don’t be an idiot!”

“It was, Mac. Elsa wasn’t so many years younger than me, but even when we were kids we were more like father and child than brother and sister. She had the spirituality and the brains; I had the brute-strength and was presumed to have the common sense; it made a rather happy combination. As soon as I got settled in the forest I wrote home to her to come out and keep house for me. I used to trust Jenkins in those days. It was I who introduced them. Jenkins introduced her to Kananda Pal.”

“That swine!”

“No, he wasn’t such a swine as Jenkins,” said Ommony. “Kananda Pal was a poor devil who was born into a black art family. He didn’t know any better. His father used to make him stare into ink-pools and all that devilment before he was knee-high to a duck. He used to do stunts with spooks and things. Jenkins, on the other hand, had a decent heritage and ditched it. It was he who invited Kananda Pal to hypnotize Elsa. Between the two of them they did a devil’s job of it. She almost lost her mind, and Jenkins had the filthy gall to use that as excuse for breaking the engagement.”

“My God! But think if he had married her! Man, man!”

“True. But think of the indecency of making that excuse! I called in Fred Terry—”

“Top-hole—generous—gallant—gay! Man, what a delightful fellow Terry was!” said McGregor. “Did he really fall in love with her? You know, he was recklessly generous enough to—”

“Yes,” said Ommony. “He almost cured her; and he fell in love. She loved him—don’t see how any real woman could have helped it. But Jenkins and Kananda Pal—oh, curse them both!”

“Amen!” remarked McGregor. “Well—we’ve got what we want. How did you hear of these letters?—Just think of it! That poor girl writing to a brute like Jenkins to give her mind back to her. So that she may—oh, my God!”

“I saw Kananda Pal before he died. That was recently. He was quite sorry about his share in the business. He tried to put all the blame on Jenkins—you know how rotters always accuse each other when the cat’s out of the bag. He told me of the letters, so I went to Jenkins yesterday and, having resigned, I was in position to be rather blunt. In fact, I was dam’ blunt. He denied their existence at first, but he handed ’em over when I explained what I intended to do if he didn’t!”

“I wonder why he’d kept them,” said McGregor.

“The pig had kept them to prove she was mad, if any one should ever accuse him of having wronged her,” Ommony answered. “Do they read like a mad-woman’s letters?”

“Man, man! They’re pitiful! They read like the letters of a drug-addict, struggling to throw off the cursed stuff, and all the while crying for it. Lord save us, what a time Fred Terry must have had!”

“Increasingly rarely,” said Ommony. “He had almost cured her. The attacks were intermittent. Terry heard of a sacred place in the hills—a sort of Himalayan Lourdes, I take it—and they set off together, twenty years ago, to find the place. I never found a trace of them, but I heard rumors, and I’ve always believed they disappeared into the Ahbor country.”

“Where they probably were crucified!” McGregor added grimly.

“I don’t know,” said Ommony. “I’ve heard tales about a mysterious stone in the Ahbor country that’s supposed to have magic qualities. Terry probably heard about it too, and he was just the man to go in search of it. I’ve also heard it said that the ‘Masters’ live in the Ahbor Valley.”

McGregor shook his head and smiled. “Still harping on that string?”

“One hundred million people, at a very conservative estimate, of whom at least a million are thinkers, believe that the Masters exist,” Ommony retorted. “Who are you and I, to say they don’t? If they do, and if they’re in the Ahbor Valley, I propose to prove it.”

McGregor’s smile widened to a grin. “Men who are as wise as they are said to be, would know how to keep out of sight. The Mahatmas, or Masters, as you call them, are a mare’s nest, Ommony, old man. However, there may be something in the other rumor. By the way: who’s this adopted daughter of Miss Sanburn?”

“Never heard of her.”

“You’re trustee of the Marmaduke Mission, aren’t you? Know Miss Sanburn intimately? When did you last see her?”

“A year ago. She comes to Delhi once a year to meet me on the mission business. About once in three years I go to Tilgaun. I’m due there now.”

“And you never heard of an adopted daughter? Then listen to this.”

McGregor opened a file and produced a letter written in English on cheap ruled paper.

“This is from Number 888—Sirdar Sirohe Singh of Tilguan, who has been on the secret roster since before my time. His home is somewhere near the mission. ‘Number 888 to Number 1. Important. Miss Sanburn of mission near here did procure fragment of crystal jade by unknown means, same having been broken from antiquity of unknown whereabouts and being reputed to possess mysterious qualities. Miss Sanburn’s adopted daughter’—get that?—‘intending to return same, was prevented by theft of fragment, female thief being subsequently murdered by being thrown from precipice, after which, fragment disappeared totally. Search for fragment being now conducted by anonymous individuals. Should say much trouble will ensue unless recovery is prompt and secret. Miss Sanburn’s adopted daughter’—get that again?—‘has vanished. Should advise much precaution not to arouse public curiosity. 888.’—“What do you make of it?” asked McGregor.

“Nothing. Never heard of an adopted daughter.”

“Then what do you make of this?”

McGregor’s left hand went into a desk-drawer, and something the color of deep sea-water over a sandy bottom flashed in the sunlight as Ommony caught it. He held it to the light. It was stone, not more than two inches thick at the thickest part, and rather larger than the palm of his hand. It was so transparent he could see his fingers through it; yet it was almost fabulously green. One side was curved, and polished so perfectly that it felt like wet soap to the touch; the other side was nearly a plane surface, only slightly uneven, as if it had been split off from another piece.

“It looks like jade,” said Ommony.

“It is. But did you ever see jade like it? Hold it to the light again.”

There was not a flaw. The sun shone through it as through glass, except that when the stone was moved there was a vague obscurity, as if the plane where the breakage had occurred in some way distorted the light.

“Keep on looking at it,” said McGregor, watching.

“No, thanks.” Ommony laid the stone on his knee and deliberately glanced around the room from one object to another. “I rebel against that stuff instinctively.”

“You recognize the symptoms?”

“Yes. There’s a polished black-granite sphere in the crypt of a ruined temple near Darjiling, that produces the same sort of effect when you stare at it. I’m told the Ka’aba at Mecca does the same, but that’s hearsay.”

“Put the stone in your pocket,” said McGregor. “Keep it there a day or two. It’s the fragment that’s missing from Tilgaun, and you’ll discover it has peculiar properties. Talk with Chutter Chand about it, he can tell you something interesting. He tried to explain to me, but it’s over my head—Secret Service kills imagination—I live in a mess of statistics and card-indexes that ’ud mummify a Sybil. All the same, I suspect that piece of jade will help you to trace the Terrys; and, if you dare to take a crack at the Ahbor country—”

“How did you come by the stone?” asked Ommony.

“I sent C99—that’s Tin Lal—to Tilgaun to look into rumors of trouble up there. Tin Lal used to be a good man, although he was always a thorough-paced rascal. But the Service isn’t what it used to be, Ommony; even our best men are taking sides nowadays, or playing for their own hand. India’s going to the dogs. Tin Lal came back and reported everything quiet at Tilgaun—said the murders were mere family feuds. But he took that piece of jade to Chutter Chand, the jeweler, and offered it for sale. Told a lame-duck story. Chutter Chand put him off—kept the stone for appraisal—and brought it to me. I provided Tin Lal—naturally—with a year behind the bars—no, not on account of the stone. He had committed plenty of crimes to choose from. I chose a little one just to discipline him. But here’s the interesting part: either Tin Lal talked in the jail—or some one followed him from Tilgaun. Anyway, some one traced that piece of jade to this office. I have had an anonymous letter about it,—worth attention—interesting. You’ll notice it’s signed with a glyph—I’ve never seen a glyph quite like it—and the handwriting is an educated woman’s. Read it for yourself.”

He passed to Ommony an exquisitely fashioned silver tube with a cap at either end. Ommony shook out a long sheet of very good English writing-paper. It was ivory-colored, heavy, and scented with some kind of incense. There was no date—no address—no signature, except a peculiar glyph, rather like an ancient, much simplified Chinese character. The writing was condensed into the middle of the page, leaving very wide margins, and had been done with a fine steel pen.

“The stone that was brought from Tilgaun by Tin Lal and was offered for sale by him to Chutter Chand is one that no honorable man would care to keep from its real owners. There is merit in a good deed and the reward of him who does justly without thought of reward is tenfold. There are secrets not safe to be pried into. There is light too bright to look into. There is truth more true than can be told. If you will change the color of the sash on the chuprassi at the front door, one shall present himself to you to whom you may return the stone with absolute assurance that it will reach its real owners. Honesty and happiness are one. The truth comes not to him who is inquisitive, but to him who does what is right and leaves the result to Destiny.”
Ommony examined the writing minutely, sniffed the paper, held it to the light, then picked up the tube and examined that.

“Who brought it?” he asked.

“I don’t know. It was handed to the chuprassi by a native he says he thinks was disguised.”

“Did you try changing the chuprassi’s sash?”

“Naturally. A deaf and dumb man came. He looked like a Tibetan. He approached the chuprassi and touched his sash, so the chuprassi brought him up to me. He was unquestionably deaf and dumb—stone-deaf, and half of his tongue was missing. The drums of his ears had been bored through—when he was a baby probably. I showed him the stone and he tried to take it from me. I had to have him forcibly ejected from the office; and of course I had him followed, but he disappeared utterly, after wandering aimlessly all over Delhi until nearly midnight. I have had a look-out kept, but he seems to have vanished without trace.”

“Have you drawn any conclusions?”

McGregor smiled. “I never draw them before it’s safe to say they’re proved. But a young woman almost certainly wrote that letter; Miss Sanburn’s adopted daughter—”

“Who I don’t believe exists,” said Ommony.

“—is reported by 888, who has hitherto always been reliable, to have disappeared. She disappeared, if she ever did exist, from Tilgaun; the stone unquestionably came from Tilgaun, and it seems to have been in Miss Sanburn’s possession, in the mission. Ergo—just as a flying hypothesis—Miss Sanburn’s adopted daughter may have written that letter. If so, she’s in Delhi, because the ink on that paper had not been dry more than an hour or two when it reached me.”

“Have you searched the hotels?”

“Of course. And the trains are being watched.”

“I’m curious to meet Hannah Sanburn’s adopted daughter!” said Ommony dryly. “I’ve known Hannah ever since she came to India more than twenty years ago. I’ve been co-trustee ever since Marmaduke died, and I don’t believe Hannah Sanburn has kept a single secret from me. In fact, it has been the other way; she has passed most of her difficult personal problems along to me for solution. I’ve a dozen files full of her letters, of which I dare say five per cent. are purely personal. I think I know all her private business. As recently as last year, when we met here in Delhi,—well—never mind; but if she had an adopted daughter, or an entanglement of any kind, I think I’d know it.”

“Women are damned deep,” McGregor answered. “Well; we’ve not much to go on. I’ll entrust that stone to you; if you’re still willing to try to get into the Ahbor country, I’ll do everything I can to assist. You’ve a fair excuse for trying; and you’re a bachelor. Dammit, if I were, I’d go with you! Of course, you understand, if the State Department learns of it you’ll be rounded up and brought back. Do you realize the other difficulties? Sven Hedin is said to have made the last attempt to get through from the North. He failed. In the last hundred years about a dozen Europeans have had a crack at it. Several died, and none got through—unless Terry and your sister did, and if so, they almost certainly died. When Younghusband went to Lhassa he considered sending one regiment back by way of the Ahbor Valley but countermanded the order when he realized that a force of fifty thousand men wouldn’t stand a chance of getting through. From time to time the government has sent six Goorkha spies into the country. None ever came back. It’s almost a certainty that the River Tsangpo of Tibet flows through the valley and becomes the Brahmaputra lower down, but nobody has proved it; nor has any one explained why the Tsangpo contains more water than the Brahmaputra. Old Kinthup, the pundit on the Indian Survey Staff, traced the Tsangpo down as far as the waterfall where it plunges into the Ahbor Valley, and he threw a hundred marked logs into the river, which were watched for lower down; but none of the logs appeared at the lower end, and not even Kinthup managed to get into the valley. The strangest part about it is, that the Northern Ahbors come down frequently to the Southern Ahbor country to trade, and they even intermarry with the Southern Ahbors. But they never say a word about their valley. The rajah of Tilgaun—the uncle of the present man—caught two and put them to torture, but they died silent. And another strange thing is, that nobody knows how the Northern Ahbors get into and out of their country. The river is a lot too swift for boats. The forest seems impenetrable. The cliffs are unclimbable. There was an attempt made last year to explore by airplane, but the attempt failed; there’s a ninety-mile wind half the time, and some of the passes to the south are sixteen or seventeen thousand feet in the air to begin with. I’m told carburetors won’t work, and they can’t carry enough fuel.—So, if you’re determined to make the attempt, slip away secretly, and don’t leave your courage behind! If it weren’t that you’ve a right to visit Tilgaun I should say you’d have no chance, but you might make it, if you’re awfully discreet and start from the Tilgaun Mission. If it’s ever found out that I encouraged you—”

“You’ve been reeling off discouragement for fifteen minutes!”

“Yes, but if it’s known I knew—”

“You needn’t worry. What made you say you think this stone will help me to trace the Terrys?”

“Nothing definite, except that it gives me an excuse for sending you to Tilgaun more or less officially. I employ you to investigate the mystery connected with that stone. As far as Tilgaun you’re responsible to me. If you decide to go on from there, you’ll have to throw me over—disobey orders. You understand, I order you to come straight back here from Tilgaun. If you disobey, you do it off your own bat, without my official knowledge. And I’m afraid, old thing, you’ll have to pay your own expenses.”

Ommony nodded.

“See Chutter Chand,” said McGregor, “and dine with me to-night—not at the club—that ’ud start all sorts of rumors flying—say at Mrs. Cornock-Campbell’s—her husband’s away, but that doesn’t matter. She’s the only woman I ever dared tell secrets to. Leave it to me to contrive the invitation—how’ll that do?”

“Mrs. Cornock-Campbell is a better man than you or me. Nine o’clock. I’ll be there,” said Ommony, noticing a certain slyness in McGregor’s smile. He bridled at it.

“Still laughing about the ‘Masters,’ Mac?”

“No, no. I’d forgotten them. Not that they exist—but never mind.”

“What then?”

“I’ll tell you after dinner, or rather some one else will. I wonder whether you’ll laugh too—or wince! Trot along and have your talk with Chutter Chand.”

[1] Uniformed doorkeeper.

*** 

DECIPHERED FROM A PALM-LEAF MANUSCRIPT
DISCOVERED IN A CAVE IN HINDUSTAN

Those who are acquainted with the day and night knew that the Day of Brahma is a thousand revolutions of the Yugas, and that the Night extendeth for a thousand more. Now the Maha-yuga consisteth of four parts, of which the last, being called the Kali Yuga, is the least, having but four-hundred-and-thirty-two thousand years. The length of a Maha-yuga, is four-million-and-three-hundred-and-twenty thousand years; that is, one thousandth part of a Day of Brahma. And man was in the beginning, although not as he is now, nor as he will be . . . [Here the palm-leaf is broken and illegible] . . . There were races in the world, whose wisemen knew all the seven principles, so that they understood matter in all its forms and were its masters. They were those to whom gold was as nothing, because they could make it, and for whom the elements brought forth. . . . . [Here there is another break] . . . And there were giants on the earth in those days, and there were dwarfs, most evil. There was war, and they destroyed. . . . [Here the leaf is broken off, and all the rest is missing.]