Forsyth assented that it would be no longer advisable, even if it were possible, to keep the Duke’s affairs out of the hands of the police, and the two made their way toward the private gate in the park wall through which Beaumanoir had gone to church on his first memorable Sunday at Prior’s Tarrant. They were approaching the gate, not by the path, but skirting the wall through the undergrowth, when a lissome body appeared suddenly at the top of the wall, poised there for a moment, and then dropped almost at their feet. It was Azimoolah Khan, dusty and out of breath, but very far from being a dead man. "How is this, thou son of Sheitan?" exclaimed the General, affecting sternness to hide his pleasure. "It was not your wont in the jungle days to desert your post in times of danger. In your absence some evil thing has befallen him whom we are pledged to guard." "Nay, Sahib, but hear me. It is not thy servant who has deserted his post, but his post which has deserted him," protested the Pathan, with dignified reproof. "The great Lord Duke ran away—oh so far and so fast—and thy servant ran after in his tracks to see that no harm befell him." "Well, where is the Duke now, man?" the General blurted out in great excitement. "Surely you haven’t come back to tell me that you have lost him?" "The Duke is in the fire-carriage, Sahib; and thy servant having no sufficient money or orders from the Sahib, was not able to follow further than the station," Azimoolah replied. Pressed to be more explicit, this was the story he had to impart. He had been patrolling the park, ever with a watchful eye for the house, when between five and six he had seen the Duke come from one of the ground-floor windows and make at great speed for the coppices. Keeping himself concealed, Azimoolah had quickly perceived that it was the Duke’s intention to leave the park by the wicket gate, and, considering it his duty not to lose sight of him, he had climbed the wall and followed. Avoiding the village street, Beaumanoir had struck into a series of lanes which presently brought him back into the main road beyond the farthest habitation. Thenceforward, with Azimoolah shadowing him, he had commenced a tramp which lasted between two and three hours, and finally ended at a railway station in a fair-sized country town. "You ascertained the name of the town?" asked the General. Yes, after the train had steamed away Azimoolah had not omitted to inquire the name of the town. It was Tring. He had also inquired at the booking-office where the Duke had taken a ticket for, but the clerk had refused the information with a rude remark about the color of his skin—a remark which, east of Suez, might have brought him a taste of cold steel. "And then, Sahib," concluded the narrator, "without bite or sup I started to run back again, being sore afraid lest thy heart should be troubled by these things."