Supposing Yasmini to be jealous of invasion of her realm, King did not doubt she would be glad to have him break down at this point. Until he had actually gained access to her, nobody could reasonably charge her with his safety. If he had been done to death in the Khyber, the sirkar would have known it in a matter of hours. If he were killed here they might never know it. “Answer!” said the mullah. “What is thy desire?” “Audience with her!” he answered, and showed the gold bracelet on his wrist. The red eye-rims of the mullah blinked a time or two, and though he did not salute the bracelet, as others had invariably done, his manner underwent a perceptible change. “That is proof that she knows thee. What is thy name.” “Kurram Khan.” “And thy business?” “Hakim.” “We need thee in Khinjan Caves! But none enter who have not earned right to enter! There is but one key. Name it!” King drew in his breath. He had hoped Yasmini's talisman would prove to be key enough. The nails his left hand nearly pierced the palm, but he smiled pleasantly. “He who would enter must slay a man before witnesses in the teeth of written law!” he said. “And thou?” “I slew an Englishman!” The boast made his blood run cold, but his expression was one of sinful pride. “Whom? When? Where?” “Athelstan King--a British arrficer--sent on his way to these 'Hills' to spy!” It was like having spells cast on himself to order! “Where is his body?” “Ask the vultures! Ask the kites!” “And thy witnesses?” Hoping against hope, King turned and waved his hand. As he did so, being quick-eyed, he saw Ismail drive an elbow home into Darya Khan's ribs, and caught a quick interchange of whispers. “These men are all known to me,” said the mullah. “They all have right to enter here. They have right to testify. Did ye see him slay his man?” “Aye!” lied Ismail, prompt as friend can be. “Aye!” lied Darya Khan, fearful of Ismail's elbow. “Then, enter!” said the priest resignedly, as one admits a communicant against his better judgment. He turned his back on them so as to face the Prophet's bed-sheet and the rear wall, and in that minute a hairy hand gripped King's arm from behind, and Ismail's voice hissed hot-breathed in his ear. “Ready of tongue! Ready of wit! Who told thee I would lie to save thy skin? Be thy kismet as thy courage, then--but I am hers, not thy man! Hers, thou light of life--though God knows I love thee!” The mullah seized the Prophet's bed-sheet and its covering rugs in both hands, with about as much reverence as salesmen show for what they keep in stock. The whole lot slid to one side by means of noisy rings on a rod, and a wall lay bare, built of crudely cut but very well laid stone blocks. It appeared to reach unbroken across the whole width of the mosque's interior.