# The Winds of the World/Chapter 3
### CHAPTER III

The colonel of Outram's Own dropped into a club where he was only one, and not the greatest, of many men entitled to respect. There were three men talking by a window, their voices drowned by the din of rain on the veranda roof, each of whom nodded to him. He chose, however, a solitary chair, for, though subalterns do not believe it, a colonel has exactly that diffidence about approaching senior civilians which a subaltern ought to feel.
In a moment all that was visible of him from the door was a pair of brown riding-boots, very much fore-shortened, resting on the long arm of a cane chair, and two sets of wonderfully modeled fingers that held up a newspaper. From the window where the three men talked he could be seen in profile.
"Wears well—doesn't he?" said one of them.
"Swears well, too, confound him!"
"Hah! Been trying to pump him, eh?"
"Yes. He's like a big bird catching flies—picks off your questions one at a time, with one eye on you and the other one cocked for the next question. Get nothing out of him but yes or no. Good fellow, though, when you're not drawing him."
"You mean trying to draw him. He's the best that come. Wish they were all like Kirby."
The man who had not spoken yet—he looked younger, was some years older, and watched the faces of the other two while seeming to listen to something in the distance—looked at a cheap watch nervously.
"Wish the Sikhs were all like Kirby!" he said. "If this business comes to a head, we're going to wish we had a million Kirbys. What did he say? Temper of his men excellent, I suppose?"
"Used that one word."
"Um-m-m! No suspicions, eh?"
"Said, 'No, no suspicions!'"
"Uh! I'll have a word with him."
He waddled off, shaking his drab silk suit into shape and twisting a leather watch-guard around his finger.
"Believe it will come to anything?" asked one of the two men he had left behind.
"Dunno. Hope not. Awful business if it does."
"Remember how we were promised a world-war two years ago, just before the Balkans took fire?"
"Yes. That was a near thing, too. But they weren't quite ready then. Now they are ready, and they think we're not. If I were asked, I'd say we ought to let them know we're ready for 'em. They want to fight because they think they can catch us napping; they'd think twice if they knew they couldn't do it."
"Are they blind and deaf? Can't they see and hear?"
"Quem deus vult perdere, prius dementat, Ponsonby, my boy."
The man in drab silk slipped into a chair next to Kirby's as a wolf slips into his lair, very circumspectly, and without noise; then he rutched the chair sidewise toward Kirby with about as much noise as a company of infantry would make.
"Had a drink?" he asked, as Kirby looked up from his paper. "Have one?"
"Ginger ale, please," said Kirby, putting the paper down.
A turbaned waiter brought long glasses in which ice tinkled, and the two sipped slowly, not looking at each other.
"Know Yasmini?" asked the man in drab silk suddenly.
"Heard of her, of course."
"Ever see her?"
"No."
"Ah! Most extraordinary woman. Wonderful!"
Kirby looked puzzled, and held his peace.
"Any of your officers ever visit her?"
"Not when they're supposed to be on duty."
"But at other times?"
"None of my affair if they do. Don't know, I'm sure."
"Um-m-m!"
"Yes," said Kirby, without vehemence.
"Look at his beak!" said one of the two men by the window. "Never see a big bird act that way? Look at his bright eye!"
"Wish mine were as bright, and my beak as aquiline; means directness—soldierly directness, that does!"
"Who is your best native officer, supposing you've any choice?" asked the man in the drab silk suit, speaking to the ceiling apparently.
"Ranjoor Singh," said Kirby promptly.
It was quite clear there was no doubt in his mind.
"How is he best? In what way?"
"Best man I've got. Fit to command the regiment."
"Um-m-m!"
"Yes," said Kirby.
The man in drab sat sidewise and caught Kirby's eye, which was not difficult. There was nothing furtive about him.
"With a censorship that isn't admitted, but which has been rather obvious for more than a month; with all forces undergoing field training during the worst of the rains—it's fair to suppose your men smell something?"
"They've been sweating, certainly."
"Do they smell a rat?"
"Yes."
"Ask questions?"
"Yes."
"What do you tell them?"
"That I don't know, and they must wait until I do."
"Any recent efforts been made to tamper with them?"
"Not more than I reported. You know, of course, of the translations from Canadian papers, discussing the rejection of Sikh immigrants? Each man received a copy through the mail."
"Yes. We caught the crowd who printed that. Couldn't discover, though, how it got into the regiment's mail bags without being postmarked. Let's see—wasn't Ranjoor Singh officer-of-the-day?"
"Yes."
"Um-m-m! Would it surprise you to know that Ranjoor Singh visits Yasmini?"
"Wouldn't interest me."
"What follows is in strict confidence, please."
"I'm listening."
"I want you to hear reason. India, the whole of India, mind, has its ear to the ground. All up and down the length of the land—in every bazaar—in the ranks of every native regiment—it's known that people representing some other European Power are trying to sow discontent with our rule; and it's obvious to any native that we're on the watch for something big that we expect to break any minute. Is that clear?"
"Yes."
"Our strongest card is the loyalty of the native troops."
"Yes."
"Everybody knows that. Also, this thing we're looking for is most damnably real—might burst to-day, to-morrow—any time. So, even with the censorship in working order, it wouldn't be wise to arrest a native officer merely on suspicion."
"I'd arrest one of mine," said Kirby, "if I had any reason to suspect him for a second."
"Wouldn't be wise! You mustn't!" The man in drab silk shook his head.
"Now, suppose you were to arrest Ranjoor Singh—"
Kirby laughed outright.
"Suppose the Chandni Chowk were Regent Street!" he jeered.
"Last night," said the man in drab silk, "Risaldar-Major Ranjoor Singh visited Yasmini, leaving six or more of the men of his squadron waiting for him in the street outside. In Yasmini's room he listened for hours to a lecture on Germany, delivered by a German who has British naturalization papers, whether forged or not is not yet clear.
"After the lecture he had a private conversation lasting some minutes with the German who says he is an Englishman, and who, by the way, speaks Hindustani like a native. And, before he started home, his men who waited in the street thrashed an Afridi within an inch of his life for threatening to report Ranjoor Singh's presence at the lecture to the authorities."
"Who told you this?" asked Colonel Kirby.
"The Afridi, Yasmini, and three hillmen who were there by invitation. I spoke with them all less than an hour ago. They all agree. But if Ranjoor Singh were asked about it, he would lie himself out of it in any of a dozen ways, and would be on his guard in future. If he were arrested, it would bring to a head what may prove to be a passing trifle; it would make the men angry, and the news would spread, whatever we might do to prevent it."
"What am I to understand that you want, then?" asked Kirby.
"Watch him closely, without letting him suspect it."
"Before I'd seriously consider orders to do that, they'd have to come through military channels in the regular way," said Kirby, without emotion.
"I could arrange that, of course. I'll mention it to Todhunter."
"And if the order reached me in the regular way, I'd resign rather than carry it out."
"Um-m-m!" said the man in drab silk.
"Yes," said Kirby.
"You seem to forget that I, too, represent a government department, and have the country's interests at heart. Do you imagine I have a grudge against Ranjoor Singh?"
"I forget nothing of the kind," said Kirby, "and imagination doesn't enter into it. I know Ranjoor Singh, and that's enough. If he's a traitor, so am I. If he's not a loyal gallant officer, then I'm not either. I'll stand or fall by his honor, for I know the man and you don't."
"Uh!" said the man in drab silk.
"Yes," said Colonel Kirby.
"Look!" said one of the two men at the window. "Direct as a hornet's sting—isn't a kink in him! Look at the angle of his chin!"
"You can tell his Sikh officers; they imitate him."
"Do I understand you to refuse me point—blank?" asked the man in the drab suit, still fidgeting with his watch—guard. Perhaps he guessed that two men in the window were discussing him.
"Yes," said Kirby.
"I shall have to go over your head."
"Understand me, then. If an order of that kind reaches me, I shall arrest Ranjoor Singh at once, so that he may stand trial and be cleared like a gentleman. I'll have nothing done to one of my officers that would be intolerable if done to me, so long as I command the regiment!"
"What alternative do you suggest?" asked the man in gray, with a wry face.
"Ask Ranjoor Singh about it."
"Who? You or I?"
"He wouldn't answer you."
"Then ask him yourself. But I shall remember, Colonel Kirby, that you did not oblige me in the matter."
"Very well," said Kirby,
"Another drink?"
"No, thanks."
"Who won?" asked one of the two men in the window.
"Kirby!"
"I don't think so. I've been watching his face. He's the least bit rattled. It's somebody else who has won; he's been fighting another man's battle. But it's obvious who lost—look at that watch-chain going! Come away."
If a man has a price at all, his price is neither high nor low, but just that price that you will pay him.—Native Proverb.