The box was a commonplace affair, built square, of pine, and had probably contained somebody's new helmet at one stage of its career. The stenciled marks on its sides and top had long ago become obliterated by wear and dirt. King got up on it and gazed long at the rows of spectators on the far side, and having no least notion what to look for, he studied the faces one by one. “If he's important enough for her to have it in for him, he'll not be far from the front,” he reasoned and with that in mind he picked out several bull-necked, bearded men, any one of whom could easily have answered to the description. There were too many of them to give him any comfort, until the thought occurred to him that a man with brains enough to be a leader would not be so obsessed and excited by mere prancing athleticism as those men were. Then he looked farther along the line. He found a man soon who was not interested in the dancing, but who had eyes and ears apparently for everything and everybody else. He watched him for ten minutes, until at last their eyes met. Then he sat down and kicked the box back to its owners. He looked again at Ismail. With teeth clenched and eyes ablaze, the Afridi was smashing his knuckles together and rocking to and fro. There was no need to fear him. He turned and touched the Pathan's broad shoulder. The man smiled and bent his turbaned head to listen. “Opposite,” said King, “nearly exactly opposite--three rows back from the front, counting the front row as one--there sits a man with his arm in a sling and a bandage over his eye.” The Pathan nodded and touched his knife-hilt. “One-and-twenty men from him, counting him as one, sits a man with a big black beard, whose shoulders are like a bull's. As he sits he hangs his head between them--thus.” “And you want him killed? Nay, I think you mean Muhammad Anim. His time is not yet.” The suggestion was as good-naturedly prompt as if the hakim's need had been water, and the other's flask were empty. He was sorry he could not offer to oblige. “Who am I that I should want him killed?” King answered with mild reproof. “My trade is to heal, not slay. I am a hakim.” The other nodded. “Yet, to enter Khinjan Caves you had to slay a man, hakim or no!” “He was an unbeliever,” King answered modestly, and the other nodded again with friendly understanding. “What about the man yonder, then?” the Pathan asked. “What will you have of him?” “Look! See! Tell me truly what his name is!” The Pathan got up and strode forward to stand on the box, kicking aside the elbows that leaned on it and laughing when the owners cursed him. He stood on it and stared for five minutes, counting deliberately three times over, striking a finger on the palm of his hand to check himself. “Bull-with-a-beard!” he announced at last, dropping back into place beside King. “Muhammad Anim. The mullah Muhammad Anim.” “An Afghan?” King asked.