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 trifles. Furthermore, I have already done some good police work.”

“You have discovered that there are strangers dwelling in the place?”

“Not so, sahib; but they have been seen in the village,” was the reply. “The woman with whom I have hired shelter says that two men, professing to be painters, were in the park all day painting the trees and the deer, for which purpose they had obtained permission of the steward. Whence the men came the woman did not know, but they drove in in a dog-cart on the St. Albans road.”

“Your informant could not tell you if the picture was finished—whether the men were coming again?’ the General asked quickly.

It was too dark to see the Pathan’s face, but a ring in his carefully managed undertone told of pride in the answer:

“She could not tell me, sahib, but I can tell you. The picture makes the trees look like cauliflowers and the deer like unto swine. Moreover, it is not finished, and the men are coming again—to-morrow, perchance.”

General Sadgrove congratulated himself on his foresight. He would have preferred having Azimoolah in the house with him, but