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MAJOR EUSTACE SMITH, aged fifty-four and rather seedy for his years, lay in bed at the Residency. There was nothing much wrong except for a boil on the back of his neck, which made him irritable. The damp and the dripping of rain depressed him; and, since the doctor went on leave, he had been lonely, although he and the doctor detested each other as only two bachelors can who have no other society than each other for months at a time. He enjoyed not having to have breakfast with the doctor, even though he missed him and needed his attentions now. Bed was comfortable. Office details were obnoxious to a military man—of the old school, dammit!—and there was nothing his clerk could not attend to; his successor, three months hence, might suit himself and find as much fault with the clerk as he pleased. In the meantime, the less business the better. Three months—then a pension, thank God!—and a little cottage in Madeira, where a fellow can live cheaply and enjoy the climate.

However, as he reached for a book and a cigarette he saw a scorpion on the pillow. Scorpions made him half-hysterical. He slew the thing and yelled for his servant; and by the time the servant came he was too upset to take things easy any longer. He swore at the servant and made him examine everything—clothes in the closet, boots, suitcases, curtains. Then he put on slippers and his bathrobe, changed the bandage on his boil and decided to try the veranda that faced the Residency garden—a mere patch of shrubbery and draggled flowers circled by a high stone wall. He ordered tea brought out there.

It always annoyed him to be interrupted at his morning tea. As a soldier he had had to rise at five a.m. or earlier and attend to all sorts of details. But "political life," according to Smith's view, called for military dignity, not military rigor. He still wore his graying moustache in fierce, waxed points, and he was ramrod-straight, however lazy he might feel. But business before eleven in the morning? No, sir! Not except in grave emergency.

So he swore when his servant brought out word to the veranda that Hawkes sahib wished to see him. It was bad enough to be expected to interview any one at that hour. But he especially detested retired infantry sergeants who eked out their pensions by staying in India and getting jobs in Native States. Such fellows ought to live in England, where they have equals and where their rotten manners consequently clash less with the social standards of their betters.

However, he knew Hawkes could not be exactly looking forward to the interview; he had been to particular pains to impress on Hawkes that he was not a welcome visitor. So he supposed there was some news that Hawkes, at any rate, believed important.

"Show the man in," he commanded. "Take that other chair away. I'll keep him standing."

Hawkes stood five feet ten in heavy boots and a ready-made English serge suit. He had left his waterproof outside, and he came to attention from old habit, so that his fine figure showed to advantage and made Smith look and feel slack as he sat staring at him in pajamas, stocking-less feet, slippers, not yet shaven. Smith, conscious of the contrast, decided to begin by taking Hawkes down a peg or two.

"A pity," he said, "that a man of your physique should loaf his days away when England needs guts and muscle. Native States are no place for pensioned soldiers. What good are you doing here?"

"I seem to satisfy His Highness, sir."

"Don't you flatter yourself?"

"And I'm keeping off the dole two sisters, one down with tuberculosis—and my mother."

"Keeping them in idleness, I don't doubt."

"Well, sir, I'm not idle. And I didn't come here to waste your time. There is something I think you ought to know, sir."

Smith's eyes glared with irritation.

"I have told you before, Hawkes, I have very reliable sources of information. Nothing goes on in the state that I don't know about before you know it. I resent your interference. Unless you know of something that I don't know—"

"It's about that tiger near the village beyond the river."

"Bah! That old wives' story! Let me tell you something for your own good. The political significance of tales like that is wrapped up in obscurity too deep for inexperience to penetrate. I heard it long ago: a woman in the jungle is supposed to possess a man-eating tiger that destroys whole villages. Well, put it in your pipe and smoke it! It's a mare's nest. It's a bit of local politics, in which His Highness and the priests are engaged in jockeying for influence. If I hear of you taking a hand, I warn you, I shall insist on the Rajah getting rid of you at once."

"You threatened that before, sir; but he can't. I've a contract. I don't wish to show you disrespect—"

"You'd better not!"

"And politics don't mean a thing to me," said Hawkes, "but I intend to do my job. When I tell you that there's a tiger killing people—and that the Rajah nor anyone else'll do a thing about it—you may make up your mind that I'm telling the truth."

"Is that so? Very well, Sergeant Know-it-all, why don't you go yourself and shoot the tiger?"

"Because of politics and me not touching 'em. My job is inspecting stores and checking sales and purchases."

"Ah! Why not, then, attend to business?"

"Very well, sir. I've reported. Thank you for the interview. Good morning."

Smith did not even answer him. He scowled. As soon as Hawkes had left he got up and began pacing the veranda.

"Dammit, I suppose I ought to go myself and shoot the bloody tiger; that 'ud stop this particular feud for a while. The brute is killing people—no doubt of that. But in this weather? And with boils on my neck! Mud—rain—snakes—malaria—and then a tiger in a ruined temple? Fat chance for a pension I'd have! Somebody would draw my life-insurance! And I'm not here to do the Rajah's dirty work. I think I'll send for Syed-Suraj. That's it. He's a slimy devil, but he has tact. He can put it to the Rajah unofficially that something has got to be done about this—and done now. That's it. Diplomacy. Nothing in writing that would call for explanations to the Foreign Office. Keep away from red tape. Yes, I'll send for Syed-Suraj."

Europe, profligacy, and the need to refinance himself by stealth had educated Syed-Suraj to an understanding of the value, among other things, of promptness in his dealings with the nervous, Nordic blonde. He arrived almost too soon for Smith to be shaved, and he had to wait in the outer office, where he fingered correspondence while the office babu's back was turned. He was amused to read that the C.I.D. requested prompt attention to the forwarding of Number D.3's confidential reports; and the Department authorized D.3 to draw whatever sums he might need up to Rs. 250, against his own voucher.

One other letter equally amused him. The Foreign Office, in view of strained political conditions, urged that foreigners—particularly doctors—should be discouraged from entering Native States unless provided with a special Foreign Office passport. The attention of the Foreign Office had been called to instances where aliens, possessed of medical skill and enthusiasm, but having no political experience, had acted indiscreetly and contributed to local unrest by exciting caste prejudice. Smith came in before he had a chance to read the other letters. Smith invited him into the library, replete with volumes of the Indian Census, law-books, and the works of Edgar Wallace. They sat down facing each other in front of the oil-stove.

"How are you?"

"How is His Highness?"

The polite formalities took half a minute. Then there was a rather awkward pause, unbroken by Syed-Suraj, who was half afraid that the news of the death of Chullunder Ghose already might have reached Smith's ears. It was news that would have to break sooner or later. His eyes were alert, hard, less simian, more brilliant.

"Suppose you and I have a friendly chat," said Smith; "no witnesses."

"A pleasure, I assure you."

"Unofficial, of course."

"That condition imposes itself, since I have no official standing."

"Understood. Do you mind telling me how matters stand at the moment as regards the quarrel between His Highness and the priests?"

Syed-Suraj chuckled, visibly relieved. "Why shouldn't I tell?" he answered. "It's no secret. They insist on his building a temple, and he has no money. They insist he purify himself by an expensive ritual. He will not."

"Why not?" Smith asked. "Is his personal ease so important to him that he can't concede a bit to superstition? Church and State must hold together, dammit,—or we'll all be Gandhi-ized. The next thing will be Communism. Nobody requires His Highness to believe in gods that were thought good enough for his ancestors. But he might at least pretend a bit. How else, in these difficult times, are we going to preserve our sacred institutions? How shall aristocracy survive in the face of Communism, if the Native Princes don't stand with the Church? Do you recall what James the First of England said? 'No bishop, no king!' Tell that to His Highness."

Syed-Suraj placed the tips of his fingers together, as he had seen the English lawyers do in consultation. He imagined it impressed the English. He particularly wanted to impress Smith, not that he admired or trusted him, but he admired and trusted his present royal patron even less. It might be time to consider safety. British practice, which is frequently above-board, is invariably based, at least politically, on careful underground investigation—spy-work, to put it bluntly. Why had Chullunder Ghose been sent by the C.I.D. to snoop and listen? Smith, as Resident, was the unacknowledged but none-the-less actual—even if duly incompetent—link in that part of the world between spies and their secretive but immensely powerful masters—men with misleading titles, who can make or ruin any one by hinting at the existence of mysterious, anonymous reports. Syed-Suraj hoped to have his own name inscribed on the list of desirables. But he was shrewd enough to know that to betray his present patron unadroitly would be to destroy his own chances. Treachery, if it is to succeed among gentlemen, has to be cloaked in decency and faithful phrases.

"It occurs to me," he said, "that this might be your opportunity to crown your career with a ribbon."

"Pah!" Smith's scorn of decorations was proportioned to the probabilities. "My dear fellow, I have never let such considerations influence me for a moment."

He believed that, perhaps. But Syed-Suraj did not. "Even governments," said Syed-Suraj, "now and then are grateful. Many of us who have experienced your tact and kindliness would dearly love to see you receive some official recognition before you retire."

"Tut-tut—let us talk of more important matters."

"The forced abdication of the Maharajah of Indore," said Syed-Suraj, coming promptly to the point, "undoubtedly has strengthened British influence in some ways. It has drawn attention to the fact that the British-Indian Government can, when it pleases, discipline—by removal—any Rajah who ignores what we might call the rules of the game."

"Yes, Yes." Smith shifted nervously. The conversation was getting a bit too serious to suit him. Even minor issues, such as tigers, were a nuisance; major ones were anathema. However, he had started it; he had to listen.

"On the other hand," said Syed-Suraj, "it has called attention to the—let us say, vulnerability, of our ruling Princes. There is a feeling that a Prince no longer has the unconditional—and, shall I call it, ingenuous backing?—of the British Raj. A Prince has become, to some extent, a skittle, one might say, who can be knocked down by a wave of indignation."

"That is an extreme view—too suggestive of hysteria," Smith answered.

"Ah! But we must consider local prejudices, politics and misconceptions. It is not on facts, but on their interpretation that rebellions are based."

"Rebellions?" said Smith. He looked scandalized.

"Revolutions, if you prefer the word. The priests have always exercised enormous influence in this State. They resent the present ruler's rather careless—and frequently, I may say, stupid—efforts to destroy that influence. They foresee—or they think they do—that the democratization of India, aimed at by Gandhi and rapidly gathering headway, must produce a conflict between new and old ideas. In plain words, they believe they must fight to the death for their privileges, sooner or later. They appreciate that phrase you wisely quoted just now—'no bishop, no king.' They would, however, say, 'no king, no bishop.' Therefore, they feel that the reigning Rajah, in order to preserve the established order, must make common cause with them and uphold their dignity and influence, that they, in turn, may uphold his. Our mutual friend, my patron, will not see that."

"Damn him!" Smith said fervently.

"The priests, in consequence, would vastly rather see his cousin on the throne. The cousin, as undoubtedly you know, is a religious man, untainted by vice or cynicism, and remarkably attentive to the drift of world affairs. He is also wealthy in his own right. I know him well. A very honorable man. Perhaps a trifle over-altruistic, but sufficiently shrewd to live over the border, in British-India, where he can keep in touch with his—ah—his admirers in the State, but be more or less safe from—ah—well, you know what so often happens to the heirs-apparent to a throne."

Smith scowled. That was another unpleasant subject. It was notorious that for hundreds of years those few direct heirs to the throne of Kutchdullub who had not been murdered had survived by luck or accident, or through the watchfulness of faithful servants.

"Let us hope that British example has relegated that sort of thing to the dishonored past, Syed-Suraj."

"Yes, let us hope so. Hope is wholesome. The point is, the cousin is sick—very sick. He is said to have ulcers. Rather rashly—in my opinion—he is just now visiting a little place he owns up in the mountains in this State."

"Yes, I know that. He paid me a call on the way," Smith answered.

"He was taken worse there."

"You suspect—?" Smith almost used undiplomatic language. Syed-Suraj diplomatically did not notice it.

"The priests—the High Church party, that is—are afraid he may die and be lost to their cause. They believe, whether rightly or wrongly, that medical—possibly surgical—skill might save him. And they don't trust the man from Madras who has charge of the case."

"Too bad the Residency doctor went on leave," said Smith.

"Yes, altogether too bad. In the circumstances it is only natural the High Church party should be restless. They are in a position to put the screws on. They intend to do it, in order, if possible, to save the life of the heir to the throne. They want him on it, and they mean to get him there by hook or by crook."

"Ridiculous!" said Smith. "Impossible!"

"The trouble with impossibilities," Syed-Suraj answered, "is that they so often happen. The High Church party has been most ingenious. They have a tiger that is killing people. And they have a story that exactly fits the superstitious prejudices of the peasants, while it tickles the sense of humor of more intelligent people."

"Yes, I've heard that tiger story. Something must be done about it."

"What, though? From time immemorial it has been the Rajah's privilege, in person or by deputy, to shoot all tigers that molest the people. If he shoots that tiger he will find himself denounced for having violated the ancient sanctuary where a so-called priestess keeps the brute. How she keeps him there, I don't know, but she does it. And remember that the Rajah, from the High Church viewpoint, is in a state of gross impurity that he refuses to correct by proper ritual and sacrifice. It would be a scandalous act for him to cross the threshold, even of a sacred ruin, no matter for what reason. They could make an awful stink about it."

"There would be riots. He might get killed—that's almost probable, there are so many fanatics who have been stirred up by the propaganda."

"Whose propaganda? The priests?"

"You bet. They are masters of it. And what will happen if he does not shoot the tiger? They will say not only that he neglects his duty, but that the tiger is sent as a curse from the angry gods because he broke his promise to rebuild that ruin in the jungle. And he can't rebuild it, even if he cared to, since he has no money. Consequence—even worse rioting!"

"Dammit, perhaps I'd better go and shoot that brute myself," said Smith.

"But if you do, my friend, you will end your career in a hornets' nest instead of being decorated for discretion!"

"What do you suggest?"

"I don't know. It occurred to me that possibly you might—ah—let us say, intuitively, guess—the—ah—the British attitude toward the Rajah's cousin. If he should come to the throne, why then, of course, the priests would get rid of the tiger. They'd poison the brute."

Smith was horrified. He was as capable of treachery as any other nerveless, self-important bureaucrat; but minor treachery—nothing heroic—nothing that might involve him in a nine-day tempest in a teapot at the close of his career. He had a genius for minor treachery. Already he was shaping in his mind a full report of this strictly private conversation, to be sent to Delhi, where it would do Syed-Suraj no good. But now he thought of something better. He could kill two birds with one stone, and retain his own reputation for tact.

"It's as simple as most problems are when you face them," he answered. "I can see no reason to take official cognizance of this. But take my compliments to His Highness, and suggest to him that he should send that fellow Hawkes to shoot the tiger. I am told he is an excellent shot."

"But sacrilege—"

"Yes, certainly. He can blame Hawkes, and dismiss him—pack him off home to England. Hawkes was in here not two hours ago. I had to reprimand him for trying to interfere in what was none of his business. I can testify that Hawkes is an incorrigible meddler."

"Hawkes has a contract—"

"He can be dismissed for cause," Smith answered. "Use tact. Warn His Highness to be careful how he instructs Hawkes. That's all."