“And you did not see her go?” he said, as if he were very much amused. “No,” said Courtenay. “She didn't go.” “Can you explain?” asked King rather stiffly. “Do you mean, can I explain why the major failed to see her? 'Pon my soul, King sahib, d'you want me to insult the man? Yasmini is too jolly clever for me, or for any other man I ever met; and the major's a man, isn't he? He may pack the Khyber so full of men that there's only standing room and still she'll go up without his leave if she chooses! There is nobody like Yasmini in all the world!” The Rangar was looking past them, facing the great gorge that lets the North of Asia trickle down into India and back again when weather and the tribes permit. His eyes had become interested in the distance. King wondered why--and looked--and saw. Courtenay saw, too. “Hail that man and bring him here!” he ordered. Ismail, keeping his distance with ears and eyes peeled, heard instantly and hurried off. He went like the wind and all three watched in silence for ten minutes while he headed off a man near the mouth of the Pass, stopped him, spoke to him and brought him along. Fifteen minutes later an Afridi stood scowling in front of them with a little letter in a cleft stick in his hand. He held it out and Courtenay took it and sniffed. “Well--I'll be blessed! A note”--sniff--sniff--“on scented paper!” Sniff--sniff! “Carried down the Khyber in a split stick! Take it, King--it's addressed to you.” King obeyed and sniffed too. It smelt of something far more subtle than musk. He recognized the same strange scent that had been wafted from behind Yasmini's silken hangings in her room in Delhi. As he unfolded the note--it was not sealed--he found time for a swift glance at Rewa Gunga's face. The Rangar seemed interested and amused. “Dear Captain King,” the note ran, in English. “Kindly be quick to follow me, because there is much talk of a lashkar getting ready for a raid. I shall wait for you in Khinjan, whither my messenger shall show the way. Please let him keep his rifle. Trust him, and Rewa Gunga and my thirty whom you brought with you. The messenger's name is Darya Khan. “Your servant, “Ysamini.” He passed the note to Courtenay, who read it and passed it back. “Are you the messenger who is to show this sahib the road to Khinjan?” he asked. “Aye!” “But you are one of three who left here and went up the Pass at dawn! I recognize you.” “Aye!” said the man. “She met me and gave me this letter and sent me back.” “How great is the lashkar that is forming?” asked Courtenay. “Some say three thousand men. They speak truth. They who say five thousand are liars. There is a lashkar.” “And she went up alone?” King murmured aloud in Pashtu. “Is the moon alone in the sky?” the fellow asked, and King smiled at him.