Smith glanced at the foot-board with a question in his eyes. It was possible — just possible — that the little man had not jumped off the train, after all. With care he could have bent low and crept back along the train. Would he have dared to attack a woman so close to an agent of the Criminal Intelligence Department? Smith thought not. Was it a trap? It seemed impossible.
No matter what might be the explanation, a woman in distress had called — and Smith swung himself out upon the running-board. As he clung to the hand-grips on the outside of the swaying train and worked his way backward the head of Langa Doonh protruded from one of the windows.
“Sahib?” the boy whispered enquiringly.
Smith placed a finger upon his lips and motioned his servant back just as he passed the last of his own compartment windows.
A hurt look spread over the face of the native boy as he withdrew from the window. Sometimes, when his master went upon particularly hazardous expeditions, Langa Doonh was left behind. The boy grieved over these occurrences but, above all else, he had to obey. To disobey Smith sahib was so utterly impossible as to be beyond his imagination.
There being nothing else to do, Langa Doonh decided to clean the compartment once more. He was bending over to brush up the dust and cinders that had accumulated when something hard flew through the window upon the opposite side of the train to that upon which Smith had made his exit. Langa Doonh fell senseless to the floor, while a heavy rock lay by his head. Instantly the almost naked body of a native wriggled through the window from whence the stone had come.
The intruding native knelt quickly and proceeded to bind the hands and feet of his victim with a stout cord that he took from around his waist. With a strip torn from his loin-cloth he forced a gag into Langa Doonh’s mouth and dragged him most unceremoniously back into his tiny compartment, the door of which he bolted before climbing out through the same window through which he had entered.
As Smith reached the first window of the compartment in rear of the one he had left he held with one hand to the iron support while, with the other, he nursed his gun just inside the breast of his pongee coat. Very carefully he raised his head and looked inside.
There was but one occupant to be seen. Upon the opposite seat lay a young woman. Her back was turned and she appeared to be sobbing her heart out into a cushion. Her body shook almost as if in convulsions.
Smith spoke, but the distracted woman paid no attention or failed to hear the rather low voice above the rattle of the train. His eyes searching every corner of the compartment and keenly inspecting the figure of the crying woman, Smith moved on from window to window until he reached the door, which he opened, and stepped inside. For a minute or two he stood motionless while he examined the contents of the compartment, noting white-covered umbrella, gloves, green veiling and some toilet articles upon the small table. Everything appeared to be genuine — and yet Smith was not satisfied.
Turning to the door of the servants’ compartment he jerked it quickly open and glanced inside. Lying upon the floor, with her head resting upon her bundle, was the old ayah whom Smith had seen upon the station platform. Her closed eyes and heavy breathing gave every indication of sleep, which is so commonly indulged in, whenever possible, by the native during the heat of the day.
Smith closed the door very quietly. Since entering the compartment Smith’s eyes had not left the figure of the sobbing woman for more than a couple of seconds. He felt that something was wrong and, intuitively, he sensed the presence of danger but he could not tell where it lay.
Not quite decided as to his course of action, Smith opened the door opposite to that which he had entered and threw one swift look back toward the compartment he had left. Even then, although he had seen that which caused him deep concern, his eyes flashed back to the figure of the girl, whose sobbing had nearly ceased. He had just seen a strange native crawling from the window of his own compartment. The incident needed quick investigation but first he must question the girl.
Smith took one step toward the now silent girl and his lanky, loose-framed body tensed as he crouched into the springing attitude of one of the jungle beasts of prey. Such a little thing he had seen — just an exposed finger upon which was a peculiar turquoise ring. The sudden crouch undoubtedly saved his life. There was the sharp crack of a small caliber pistol as the girl raised her head and fired over her reclining body.
III
Smith did not return the fire although his pistol was drawn. Instead he hurled his body forward as the beast of prey that he resembled might have done. One long arm shot out and the pistol was seized with lean fingers and wrenched away before the girl could press the trigger a second time. The girl, nonplussed by the suddenness of her defeat, sat up, her face exposed. A broad grin spread over Smith’s face. All his indolence of manner returned. Carelessly he stretched out a hand and lifted the mass of curls from her head. Before him sat the dapper little man who had pretended to jump from the train.
“Got any more guns?” asked Smith.
The little man sullenly shook his head but Smith made certain by a thorough patting from head to foot.
“Put your hair on again,” continued Smith, tossing back the curly wig, “and climb back into my compartment. You are cleverer than I thought and I think I’ll take you to Calcutta. You are almost clever enough to be the man I am after; but no,” — Smith paused in thought — “he would have removed the turquoise ring.”
The man in woman's attire looked down at the ring and sullenly turned the blue stone in.
“So that was what warned you,” he commented. “Shall I get out of these woman’s things?”
“No,” returned Smith. “Get out on the running-board and back to my compartment just as you are. If you try to jump off I’ll shoot you before you touch the ground.”
Few people hang their heads out of the windows of Indian trains on the long, dusty stretches between stations. Nobody saw a man and a woman clinging to the foot-board of the swaying train. Had they done so they would have noticed that the woman went first and that the man did not bother to offer the slightest assistance to his companion. Indeed, when the woman came opposite to the first window of the adjoining compartment she caught her skirt on a loose screw of an iron hand-grip and seemed to be in considerable difficulty. Even then the man, only a few feet behind her, offered no help. After considerable delay, however, he became impatient and spoke in a low voice.
“Move on,” he said, “or I’ll shoot your dress free.”
The delay had considerably exasperated Smith, who was anxious to ascertain what the strange native had been doing in his compartment. As he followed his captive through the door he dropped the gun, which he had been carrying, into his side pocket and turned toward the servants’ compartment.
“Your hands up, old chap, if you don’t mind.”
Smith wheeled, but it was too late. Stretched full length upon the long seat, so close to the windows as to have been invisible to Smith as he climbed along the running-board, was the ayah — the infirm old native woman who had apparently been sleeping so soundly but a few minutes before. In her hand was a pistol and Smith’s hands slowly went above his head. It was the ayah and yet it was not. The sluggish mentality of an old native woman was gone and with it the timorous attitude of the humble servant. Only his long training in self-control allowed Smith to depict the outward indifference that he was far from feeling.