"You fool! Why do you mix lies in your report; the elephant had no bell."
Undismayed, the man answered: "The mahout maintained as much, sahib, but we all heard the bell, and Moti was in a sweet temper, for she laughed, as elephants do when they are pleased."
"It was a bird you heard--the sweet-singing shama, or a chakwa calling to his mate across a stream. Did you see her?"
"It was still dark, but we could hear Moti sigh as though her heart was troubled because she could not come to partake of the cakes we burned so that they would be known in her nostrils."
"As to a chain, it is true; but the sahib knows that evil attaches to things that are sacred of a temple when they have fallen into the hands of others."
"Speak!" Finnerty commanded, as the native hesitated.
"It is said--perhaps it is but a rumour of the bazaar--that Moti was of a temple up in the hills, and that in the bell was a sacred sapphire."
"But how came Moti to my place? Know you that, sage one?"
The native dismissed the sarcasm with a salaam, answering: "It is said that the temple was looted of jewels that were buried beneath a pillar."
With a start, Finnerty asked: "And the stone pillar--was it taken?" And he laughed as if in derision.
"I have heard that the pillar is in a new place, sahib."
"Is it in the prince's grounds?" And Finnerty swept an arm toward the palace hill.
"There is a stone standing there that did not grow with the roses," the native answered enigmatically.
"Just another move in our deranged friend's plot," Finnerty commented. He turned to the native: "Was the lama of the temple killed?"
"Men who are dead do not come to the market place to complain, and as the priest has not spoken it may be that he is dead."
"Here comes our friend in perpetuity, the Banjara!" Finnerty exclaimed. He rose, and, going into the bungalow, returned to drop a rupee in the native's hand, saying: "Go back to Raj Bahadar and tell the mahout I will be along shortly." He turned to the captain.
"Swinton, all one's servants may know the thing a man is risking his life to discover and he be none the wiser till some one babbles it like a child."
"As in the mutiny," Swinton suggested. "Our officials saw cow dung plastered on the trees--some few heard what they called 'silly whispers,' but all native India knew, and all India remained hushed till the dead silence was shattered by the tornado."