It did not seem quite the thing to be riding away to war with the best native officer in all India somewhere in Delhi on "special service"--whatever that might be. He was given, as a rule, to smiling at any man who did his best. On any other day he would have very likely exchanged a joke with the bullock-man who labored so unavailingly to get the road cleared in a hurry. But to-day, since his thoughts were of Ranjoor Singh, he paid the man no attention; he had not even formed a mental picture of him by the time he passed the gate. It was Warrington, cantering up from behind a minute or so later, who changed the color of the earth and sky. "Did you recognize him, sir?" "Whom?" "Ranjoor Singh!" "No! Where?" "Not the bullock-man who blocked the road, but the man who ran out from behind the gate and straightened things out again. That man was Ranjoor Singh in mufti!" "What makes you think so?" "I recognized him. So did his squadron--look at them! They're riding like new men!" Kirby looked, and there was no doubt about D Squadron. "Is he there still?" he asked. "I can see a man standing there--see him? Fellow in white between two bullock carts?" Kirby pulled out to the roadside and let the regiment pass him. Then he cantered back. The man between the bullock carts had his back turned, and was gazing toward Delhi under his hand. "Ranjoor Singh!" said Kirby, reining suddenly. "Is that you?" "Uh?" The man faced about. He was no more Ranjoor Singh than he was Colonel Kirby. "Where is the man who came from behind the gate to clear the road?" The man pointed toward the gate. Inside, within the gloom of the gate itself, Kirby was certain he saw a Sikh who stood at the salute. He cantered to the gate, for he would have given a year's pay for word with Ranjoor Singh. But when he reached the gate the man was gone. "And he promised he'd be there to lead his squadron when the blood runs," wondered Kirby. "Now a trap," said the tiger, "is easy to spot," (Oh, jungli, be seated and listen!) "Some tempt you with live bait, and others do not;" (Oh, jungli, be leery and listen!) "The easiest sort to detect have a door-- A box, with three walls and a roof and a floor-- That the veriest, hungriest cub should ignore." (Oh, jungli, stop laughing and listen!) "This isn't a trap, as I'll show you, my friend." But the tiger fell into it. That is the end. (Oh, jungli, be loving and listen!) YASMINI'S SONG. CHAPTER X Ranjoor Singh; on the trail of a murderer, shoved with his whole strength against a little door of the House-of-the-Eight-Half-brothers. It yielded suddenly. He shot in headlong, and the door slammed behind him. As he fell forward into pitch blackness he was conscious of shooting bolts behind and of the squeaking of a beam swung into place.