LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER I

       Table of Contents

      THE Mahrajah of Curriebad was for the present located in Jermyn Street. On the following day he was commanded to Windsor for the regulation dinner; in the meantime he had practically chartered the hotel.

      Morals the Mahrajah possessed none—they would have been perfectly superfluous in any case—but money he had in plenty. For this reason the India Office people were fond of him.

      At the present moment they were desirous of getting something out of their distinguished visitor: more territory, more men, an extra sack of diamonds; and the Windsor interview was expected to clinch the business. Meantime the dusky potentate winked the other eye. He fully appreciated the meaning of the phrase. He had a private music-hall of his own at Curriebad.

      Incidentally it may be mentioned that a more consummate rascal than Nana Rau never drew the breath of life through shifty lips. Of his early career people knew but little. They noted that he spoke excellent English, and that his knowledge of the Stud-Book was not of a perfunctory character.

      Nana Rau had just dined alone. As he lighted his second cigarette a servant entered with the announcement that a visitor waited below. With rare graciousness the Prince ordered the gentleman to be conveyed into his presence.

      He came, he bowed, he closed the door behind him.

      “My name is Wilfred Vaughan, your Highness,” he said.

      The potentate nodded. The stranger prepossessed him, he was so exquisitely dressed.

      “Sit down, Mr. Vaughan,” he said, “and take a cigarette. Then, if you please, you can proceed to unfold your business.”

      “I am obliged to you. Ah, what it is to be an Eastern Potentate! Now, it would be impossible for me to get cigarettes like these. My good friend, it is possible that you have forgotten the old Oxford days?”

      “That is a long time ago—twenty years,” Nana Rau replied, uneasily.

      He felt uneasy, too. The India Office would have been surprised to hear that Nana Rau had ever been at Oxford. But then he was not Nana Rau at all, and four good lives stood between him and the sacks of Curriebad diamonds. Also incidents had happened at Oxford which it was expedient should remain buried in the silent tomb with the flowers blooming atop, and no white stone to mark their memory. Even now, were those stories told, Nana Rau knew that his connection with the throne of Curriebad would come to an abrupt conclusion.

      “Twenty years are nothing,” Vaughan said sententiously, “and my memory is good.”

      “You are Vaughan of ‘The House,’ of course. What can you remember?”

      “Well, for instance,” Vaughan smiled, “there was a pretty tobacconist’s assistant: she was found dead under very suspicious circumstances. About the same time an Indian student at Christ Church disappeared. The police were anxious to find him—very anxious. Strange to say he was never heard of again; and, until to-day, I haven’t seen him since.”

      Nana Rau recovered his equanimity. His thin lips ceased to twitch. He felt that this was a mere matter of money.