Then, in a bitter temper, she stooped again to rescue the bit of discolored paper that had fallen with the pearls. Her anger was not lessened by finding that it was covered with Hindustani characters. They, of course, offered her no clue to the solution of the mystery that was wringing her heartstrings. If anything, the illegible scrawl only added to her distress. The document was something unknown; therefore, it lent itself to distrust. At any rate, the turban was destined not to be shredded into lint that day. She busied herself with tearing up the rest of the linen. When night came, and Mr. Mayne could leave his post, she showed him the paper and asked him to translate it. He was a good Eastern scholar, but the dull rays of a small oil lamp were not helpful in a task always difficult to English eyes. He bent his brows over the script and began to decipher some of the words. "'Malcolm-sahib ... the Company's 3d Regiment of Horse ... heaven-born Princess Roshinara Begum....' Where in the world did you get this, Winifred, and how did it come into your possession?" he said. "It was in Mr. Malcolm's turban--the one you brought me to-day from his quarters." "In his turban? Do you mean that it was hidden there?" "Yes, something of the kind." Mayne examined the paper again. "That is odd," he muttered after a pause. "But what does the writing mean? You say it mentions his name and that of the Princess Roshinara? Surely it has some definite significance?" The Commissioner was so taken up with the effort to give each spidery curve and series of distinguishing dots and vowel marks their proper bearing in the text that he did not catch the note of disdain in his niece's voice. "I have it now," he said, peering at the document while he held it close to the lamp. "It is a sort of pass. It declares that Mr. Malcolm is a friend of the Begum and gives him safe conduct if he visits Delhi within three days of the date named here, but I cannot tell when that would be, until I consult a native calendar. It is signed by Bahadur Shah and is altogether a somewhat curious thing to be in Malcolm's possession. Is that all you know of it--merely that it was stuck in a fold of his turban?" "This accompanied it," said Winifred, with a restraint that might have warned her hearer of the passion it strove to conceal. But Mayne was deaf to Winifred's coldness. If he was startled before, he was positively amazed when she produced the necklace. He took it, appraised its value silently, and scrutinized the workmanship in the gold links. "Made in Delhi," he half whispered. "A wonderful thing, probably worth two lakhs of rupees,[13] or even more. It is old, too. The craftsman who fashioned this clasp is not to be found nowadays. Why, it may have been worn by Nurmahal herself! Each of its fifty pearls could supply a chapter of a romance. And you found it, together with this safe-conduct, in Malcolm's turban?" [Footnote 13: At that time, $100,000.]