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he knew far too much about that rascally rogue.

As he turned to go, Billy bethought himself of that precious thing, the silken cord, and as he tucked it within his bosom he slipped his flat automatic into his pocket as an afterthought. If these rogues had killed Mahbub Ali for this, surely they would do no less for him in their determination to repossess themselves of it.

He strode back the way he had come, through the Motee Bazar to the still noisy Kashmir Serai, as active all night long as by daylight—more so, even—for the Oriental turns day into night or night into day, imperturbably. But it is noteworthy that he kept to the wide, well-lighted thoroughfares and avoided that short cut through the alleys as he would the plague. And his eyes roved incessantly about, never still a moment, while Chota Lal dogged his footsteps, a faithful little shadow.

Billy had decided on his course of action. He had determined to retrace Mahbub Ali's footsteps as best he might. Though he could ill spare the time, he would make the weary trip, for he was playing, he realized, for millions. That these millions would flow into the Kimball line's coffers were he successful troubled him not a whit. His was the joy of the game, the pitting of his wits against those others, the winning, all alone, against he knew not what, nor cared.

He remembered that Mahbub Ali had a partner who was a cousin of sorts, and that partner he found after a long weary search in that maggot-like Oriental crowd, but trying to make him talk was a more difficult thing; for he had all the native's aversion against truth-telling and there was, besides, such a pitiful bit to be found out.

From the few of Mahbub's caravan train that had not gone to seek employment elsewhere, he found out that Mahbub Ali had come through Mussoorie Pahar from Rampur, and before that from Chini. Beyond that the trail was blank, nor would they talk overmuch of Chini, that valley in the High Hills. Was it not a place of Shaitans, where stalked Murrah and Awan, the Companion of Kings, and other devils and djinns without number? They were all Jullalee, those devils—all terrible; that much was certain.

That was the sum total of information that Billy carried back to his hotel in the early morning after cursing them all heartily as children of the devil Mushoot, the Lord of Liars. Nor was he surprized to find that during his absence the place had been searched and ransacked most thoroughly. He had expected that. But he had not expected them to bukk (bungle) the job as they had done. His opinion of Sikhandar Khan dropped distinctly as he surveyed the disorder. Small matter. There was nothing they could have found there that mattered.

He grinned at Chota Lal, who was stuffing himself with more delicacies than he had ever before eaten at one time, then winced as a movement of the young body showed the raised bamboo welts of the beating of the night before. Sikhandar Khan would have to pay through the nose for that night's work. In the fullness of time there would be a bitter bill for him to foot.

"As soon as may be," he said in the vernacular, "we go upon the road, thou and I. thou and I. A long trail, a weary trail, perhaps even a trail of death, oh my son. What matter? Art thou minded even yet to follow me?"

"If I eat thy bread how shall I forget thee, oh Father of All the Friendless?"

"Well said, little one," and for the waif there welled a great affection in his heart, a friendship, a love that was to endure for longer than either of them realized. A thousand times we