"My God! But think if he had married her! Man, man!"
"True. But think of the indecency of making that excuse! I called in Fred Terry—"
"Top-hole—generous—gallant—gay! Man, what a delightful fellow Terry was!" said McGregor. "Did he really fall in love with her?—You know, he was recklessly generous enough to—"
"Yes," said Ommony. "He almost cured her; and he fell in love. She loved him—don't see how any real woman could have helped it. But Jenkins and Kananda Pal—oh, curse them both!"
"Amen!" remarked McGregor. "Well—we've got what we want. How did you hear of these letters?—Just think of it! That poor girl writing to a brute like Jenkins—to give her mind back to her. So that she may—oh, my God!"
"I saw Kananda Pal before he died. That was recently. He was quite sorry about his share in the business. He tried to put all the blame on Jenkins—you know how rotters always accuse each other when the cat's out of the bag. He told me of the letters, so I went to Jenkins yesterday and, having resigned, I was in position to be rather blunt. In fact, I was dam' blunt. He denied their existence at first, but he handed 'em over when I explained what I intended to do if he didn't!"
"I wonder why he'd kept them," said McGregor.
"The pig had kept them to prove she was mad, if any one should ever accuse him of having wronged her," Ommony answered. "Do they read like a mad-woman's letters?"
"Man, man! They're pitiful! They read like the letters of a drug-addict, struggling to throw off the cursed stuff, and all the while crying for it. Lord save us, what a time Fred Terry must have had!"
"Increasingly rarely," said Ommony. "He had almost cured her. The attacks were intermittent. Terry heard of a sacred place in the hills—a sort of Himalayan Lourdes, I take it—and they set off together, twenty years ago, to find the place. I never found a trace of them, but I heard rumors, and I've always believed they disappeared into the Ahbor country."
"Where they probably were crucified!" McGregor added grimly.
"I don't know," said Ommony. "I've heard tales about a mysterious stone in the Ahbor country that's supposed to have magic qualities. Terry probably heard about it too, and he was just the man to go in search of it. I've also heard it said that the 'Masters' live in the Ahbor Valley."
McGregor shook his head and smiled. "Still harping on that string?"
"One hundred million people, at a very conservative estimate, of whom at least a million are thinkers, believe that the Masters exist," Ommony retorted. "Who are you and I, to say they don't? If they do, and if they're in the Ahbor Valley, I propose to prove it."
McGregor's smile widened to a grin. "Men who are as wise as they are said to be, would know how to keep out of sight. The Mahatmas, or Masters, as you call them, are a mare's nest, Ommony, old man. However, there may be something in the other rumor. By the way: who's this adopted daughter of Miss Sanburn?"
"Never heard of her."
"You're trustee of the Marmaduke Mission, aren't you? Know Miss Sanburn intimately? When did you last see her?"
"A year ago. She comes to Delhi once a year to meet me on the mission business. About once in three years I go to Tilgaun. I'm due there now."
"And you never heard of an adopted daughter? Then listen to this."
McGregor opened a file and produced a letter written in English on cheap ruled paper.
"This is from Number 888—Sirdar Sirohe Singh of Tilgaun, who has been on the secret roster since before my time. His home is somewhere near the mission. 'Number 888 to Number 1. Important. Miss Sanburn of mission near here did procure fragment of crystal jade by unknown means, same having been broken from antiquity of unknown whereabouts and being reputed to possess mysterious qualities. Miss Sanburn's adopted daughter'—get that? —'intending to return same, was prevented by theft of fragment, female thief being subsequently murdered by being thrown from precipice, after which, fragment disappeared totally. Search for fragment being now conducted by anonymous individuals. Should say much trouble will ensue unless recovery is prompt and secret. Miss Sanburn's adopted daughter'—get that, again?—'has vanished. Should advise much precaution not to arouse public curiosity. 888.'—What do you make of it?" asked McGregor.
"Nothing. Never heard of an adopted daughter."
"Then what do you make of this?"
McGregor's left hand went into a desk-drawer, and something the color of deep sea-water over a sandy bottom flashed in the sunlight as Ommony caught it. He held it to the light. It was stone, not more than two inches thick at the thickest part, and rather larger than the palm of his hand. It was so transparent he could see his fingers through it; yet it was almost fabulously green. One side was curved, and polished so perfectly that it felt like wet soap to the touch; the other side was nearly a plane surface, only slightly uneven, as if it had been split off from another piece.
"It looks like jade," said Ommony.
"It is. But did you ever see jade like it? Hold it to the light again."
There was not a flaw. The sun shone through it as through glass, except that when the stone was moved there was a vague obscurity, as if the plane where the breakage had occurred in some way distorted the light.
"Keep on looking at it," said McGregor, watching.
"No, thanks." Ommony laid the stone on his knee and deliberately glanced around the room from one object to another. "I rebel against that stuff instinctively."
"You recognize the symptoms?"
"Yes. There's a polished black-granite sphere in the crypt of a ruined temple, near Darjiling, that produces the same sort of effect when you stare at it. I'm told the Ka'aba at Mecca does the same, but that's hearsay."
"Put the stone in your pocket," said McGregor. "Keep it there a day or two. It's the fragment that's missing from Tilgaun, and you'll discover it has peculiar properties. Talk with Chutter Chand about it, he can tell you something interesting. He tried to explain to me, but it's over my head—Secret Service kills imagination—I live in a mess of statistics and card-indexes that 'ud mummify a Sybil. All the same, I suspect that piece of jade will help you to trace the Terrys; and, if you dare to take a crack at the Ahbor country—"
"How did you come by the stone?" asked Ommony.
"I sent C99—that's Tin Lal—to Tilgaun to look into rumors of trouble up there. Tin Lal used to be a good man, although he was always a thorough-paced rascal. But the Service isn't what it used to be, Ommony; even our best men are taking sides nowadays, or playing for their own hand. India's going to the dogs. Tin Lal came back and reported everything quiet at Tilgaun—said the murders were mere family feuds. But he took that piece of jade to Chutter Chand, the jeweler, and offered it for sale. Told a lame-duck story. Chutter Chand put him off—kept the stone for appraisal—and brought it to me. I provided Tin Lal—naturally —with a year behind the bars—no, not on account of the stone. He had committed plenty of crimes to choose from. I chose a little one just to discipline him. But here's the interesting part: either Tin Lal talked in the jail—or some one followed him from Tilgaun. Anyway, some one traced that piece of jade to this office. I have had an anonymous letter about it; worth attention—interesting. You'll notice it's signed with a glyph —I've never seen a glyph quite like it—and the handwriting is an educated woman's. Read it for yourself."
He passed to Ommony an exquisitely fashioned silver tube with a cap at either end. Ommony shook out a long sheet of very good English writing-paper; It was ivory-colored, heavy, and scented with some kind of incense. There was no date—no address—no signature, except a peculiar glyph, rather like an ancient, much simplified Chinese character.