Sir Matthew caressed the white moustache again in an endeavour to assume command. “You’re asking me to go back a good many years, Mr. Bathurst. Forty-four to be exact. And forty-four years are not five-and-twenty minutes. But I’ll tell you all I know.” He chuckled at the savour of the reminiscence. “Dan Delaney, Desmond Carruthers and I were all Westhamptonshire born men and were junior officers together in the 8th Westhampton Regiment. We were sent to India. Eventually we found ourselves stationed in a wild territory of Baluchistan, near Quetta, and not far from the Bolan Pass. It’s a mountainous, sandy desert of a place by no means thickly populated—the natives that do eke out an existence there live a nomadic, pastoral sort of life. Four years after we got out there a separate administration was constituted under the Governor-General’s Agent in Baluchistan and things got a bit better. For which we were all devoutly thankful. But we fellows were a reckless, wild-harum-scarum set always ready for any desperate adventure that promised itself. The more perilous it was the better we welcomed it. The big bug in that region is the Khan of Kalat and there are all sorts of fancy religions knocking about round there—I can tell you.” “Pardon me interrupting a moment,” interjected Anthony. “What was the name of the dialect spoken by the natives? Can you remember? I have a real reason for asking.” Sir Matthew wrinkled his brows. “There were many. Dozens of ’em in all probability. In the Central Provinces you get Hindi and Marathi chiefly, but up there, you find so many different tribal tongues. Where was I?” “Ready for any desperate adventure,” smiled back Anthony. “Ah yes!” Sir Matthew rubbed his hands in evident enjoyment. The old man was back in the saddle again. “Well, as I said, we were a wild lot and although I say it myself, Delaney, Carruthers and I were perhaps the three most adventurous spirits of the whole crowd—as venturesome as we were high. I mentioned that there was plenty of religious fanaticism knocking about. When he _is_ religious—the tribesman takes his religion pretty seriously, I can tell you, Mr. Bathurst. We Europeans aren’t made like it. Well, one day we got wind of a wonderful native temple, situated up by the Bolan Pass. It was supposed to be a most amazing affair and hundreds of their specially holy men were in the habit of making long pilgrimages to it. As a religious exercise, you know. Kind of Mecca! You know what I mean! Rumour had it also that no European had ever set foot inside it—or at all events if he had succeeded in doing so, he hadn’t come out of it alive. Death was the penalty of entrance. All the young officers in our crowd were desperately keen to get inside it, when one day Dan Delaney discovered that he was in luck’s way. He had a body servant attached to him who had been specially transferred for some reason or the other to the 8th Westhamptons from one of the native regiments.”