a scandal over here, and every scandal that reeks in the London Westend stinks to heaven by the time it reaches Calcutta and some deputy assistant commissioner's mother-in-law's ear—and tongue. I have not the fluttering ghost of a chance in India.”
“India is not the only land East of Suez,” the other rejoined gently.
“I know. But it is the only part of Asia where I would fit in. I was born there, and my people have lived for generations between the Himalayas and Cape Comorin. I know all sorts of people there, in the army, the civil service, and, of course, they'll give me the cold shoulder as their brethren do in England—not that I can blame them for it. But what's the use? I have half a mind to go West, to Canada, instead of East, and so …”
He was about to toss the purse on the low taboret, when Ali Yusuf Khan stopped him with a stiff, wooden gesture and a show of flaming passion.
“I thought you were a gentleman—an English gentleman!”
“I am!” quickly, boyishly.
“Then live up to your bargain. You took the money. Now you must go.”
“But don't you understand? I don't want to bore you with the whole, long, mean story of the particular scandal in which I am mixed up. Wouldn't interest you anyway. Only—I tell you I haven't a chance over there.”
“You have something else!”
“What?”
“The blade!” Ali Yusuf Khan's words came out
