Woodhouse sent a lightning glance at the door leading to the governor's room, then stepped lightly away from the Indian and regarded him with hard calculating eyes. "What do you propose to do--with those plans?" "What should I do?" The white shoulders of the Indian went up in a shrug. "They will stand you before a wall, Cap-tain Wood-house. And fire. It is the price of in-discretion at a time like this." Woodhouse's right hand whipped back to his holster, which hung from his sword belt, and came forward again with a thick, short-barreled weapon in it. "Give me those plans, you yellow hound!" "Shoot!" Jaimihr Khan smiled. "Add one in-discretion to another. Shoot, my youthful fool!" The door to General Crandall's room opened, and the general, in uniform evening dress, stepped into the library. Woodhouse swiftly slipped his revolver behind his back, though keeping it ready for instant use. "All ready, Captain. Smoke." The general extended his cigarette case toward Woodhouse. The latter smilingly declined, his eyes all the while on the Indian, who stood by the corner of the general's desk. Between the sleek brown hands a tiny blue roll of paper was twisting into a narrower wisp under the careless manipulation of thin fingers. "Well, Jaimihr," Crandall briskly addressed the servant, "have you completed the errand I sent you on?" "Yes, General Sahib." The brown fingers still caressed the plans of the signal tower. "Have you anything to report?" The general had his cigarette in his mouth and was pawing his desk for a match. Jaimihr Khan slowly lifted the tip of the paper wisp in his fingers to the flame of a candle on the end of the desk, then held the burning tip to his master's cigarette. [Illustration: Jaimihr Khan held the tip to his master's cigarette.] "Nothing, General Sahib." "Very good. Come, Woodhouse; sorry to have kept you waiting." The general started for the double doors. Woodhouse followed. He passed very close to the Indian, but the latter made no sign. His eyes were on the burning wisp of paper between his fingers. CHAPTER XVI THE PENDULUM OF FATE