At the words Owen advanced again and stepped into the room, to find it brilliantly illuminated, while the lamp hung over a central table at which the long figure of his enemy lounged. Colonel Le Pourton had as yet no suspicion of the intention of his visitor or of his disguise, for as the escaping prisoner entered he barely glanced at him, and then returned to the work he had in hand. There were plans and maps before him, and on one of the latter he was tracing out the positions of the various British forces then in the field. At his elbow stood a massive gold box, in which was his store of tobacco, while he held between his thin lips the stem of an English clay pipe, so much beloved of our forefathers. Smoke issued in thin puffs from his lips and from his nose and billowed into the room, almost hiding him from view, and obscuring some portion of the decorated ceiling, the limp Eastern hangings, and the rich mats which lay on the floor. Owen salaamed, with one hand to his forehead, while he still concealed his pistol. [Illustration: COLONEL LE POURTON WAS STARING DOWN THE MUZZLE OF THE WEAPON _Page 298_] "You called, my lord," he said. "I am here." Had he cared he could have shot the Frenchman where he stood with the greatest ease and security, for Colonel Le Pourton was wont to treat all natives as if they were dust beneath his feet. It was not his custom to interrupt any matter upon which he might be engaged because a servant happened to enter his room; and so, for a minute at least, he stood there, lounging over the table, making dots upon the map with a pencil and puffing clouds of smoke into the air. At length he dropped the pencil, smoothed out the map, and slowly swung round to interview his visitor. His eyes fell first upon the stranger's elaborate turban, and then travelled to his face. He opened his lips to speak, taking the pipe out as he did so, and then his jaw dropped, his eyes seemed to start from his head, while his moustaches bristled. He staggered back to the table, and leaned one hand upon it. Then his eyes went to his sabre, which stood against the far side, a growl escaping his lips as he saw that it was out of reach. But he could shout. He could call and give warning to the sentries at the gate. Owen could almost read his thoughts, and saw his lips open again for the purpose of calling. But he had a means within his hand to silence his enemy, and at the sight his pistol flashed out from beneath his coat and in less than a second Colonel Le Pourton was staring with protruding eyes down the muzzle of the weapon. "It is much the same to me, Colonel," said Owen in the Mahratta language, wonderfully cool now that the time for action had arrived. "I was to have been murdered to-night. If you call out or attempt opposition I will fire, and will at least have the pleasure of seeing you die first. Silence, sir! Sit down!"