"Chiefly to get himself out of a disastrous speculation," replied Carrados, answering the question. "If there was another motive--or at least an incentive--which I suspect, doubtless we shall hear of it." "All the same, Max, I don't think that you have treated me quite fairly," protested Carlyle, getting over his first surprise and passing to a sense of injury. "Here we are and I know nothing, absolutely nothing, of the whole affair." "We both have our ideas of pleasantry, Louis," replied Carrados genially. "But I dare say you are right and perhaps there is still time to atone." In the fewest possible words he outlined the course of his investigations. "And now you know all that is to be known until Drishna arrives." "But will he come?" questioned Carlyle doubtfully. "He may be suspicious." "Yes, he will be suspicious." "Then he will not come." "On the contrary, Louis, he will come because my letter will make him suspicious. He _is_ coming; otherwise Parkinson would have telephoned me at once and we should have had to take other measures." "What did you say, Max?" asked Carlyle curiously. "I wrote that I was anxious to discuss an Indo-Scythian inscription with him, and sent my car in the hope that he would be able to oblige me." "But is he interested in Indo-Scythian inscriptions?" "I haven't the faintest idea," admitted Carrados, and Mr. Carlyle was throwing up his hands in despair when the sound of a motor-car wheels softly kissing the gravel surface of the drive outside brought him to his feet. "By Gad, you are right, Max!" he exclaimed, peeping through the curtains. "There is a man inside." "Mr. Drishna," announced Parkinson a minute later. The visitor came into the room with leisurely self-possession that might have been real or a desperate assumption. He was a slightly built young man of about twenty-five, with black hair and eyes, a small, carefully trained moustache, and a dark olive skin. His physiognomy was not displeasing, but his expression had a harsh and supercilious tinge. In attire he erred towards the immaculately spruce. "Mr. Carrados?" he said inquiringly. Carrados, who had risen, bowed slightly without offering his hand. "This gentleman," he said, indicating his friend, "is Mr. Carlyle, the celebrated private detective." The Indian shot a very sharp glance at the object of this description. Then he sat down. "You wrote me a letter, Mr. Carrados," he remarked, in English that scarcely betrayed any foreign origin, "a rather curious letter, I may say. You asked me about an ancient inscription. I know nothing of antiquities; but I thought, as you had sent, that it would be more courteous if I came and explained this to you." "That was the object of my letter," replied Carrados. "You wished to see me?" said Drishna, unable to stand the ordeal of the silence that Carrados imposed after his remark.