Oneypore—and the horses were about to give in. Their heads were bowed on their heaving, lathering chests, and they breathed with a deep, rattling noise.
Thorneycroft dismounted and stretched his cramped legs.
"Ride down there," he said to the babu, pointing at a narrow valley to the west, black with trees and gnarled shrub, that cleft the land. "Wait until you hear from me. I fancy you'll find some brother babu in the valley fattening his pouch and increasing his bank-account at the expense of the Rajput villagers. He will give you food and drink and a roof over your head. Tell him anything you wish as long as you don't tell him the truth."
"Of course I shall not tell him the truth," replied the babu, slightly hurt. "Am I a fool or—"
"An Englishman?" Thorneycroft completed the sentence. "Never mind. I am English. But I learned the art of deceit in Kashmere, the home of lies, and Youssef Ali, too, gave me some invaluable lessons."
And while the babu rode off to the valley, leading the other horse, Thorneycroft set off at a good clip toward Oneypore, which was becoming more distinct every minute as the morning mists rolled up
