Excerpt: ...which he was destined never to make. For while he breakfasted a telegram had been brought to him. "Your train for Benares," he read, "leaves Howrah at nine-thirty. Imperative." It was signed: "Pink Satin." He acted upon it without thought of disobedience; he was in the hands of Labertouche, and Labertouche knew best. Between the lines he read that the Englishman considered it unwise to attempt further communication in Calcutta. Something had happened to eliminate the trip to Darjeeling. Labertouche would undoubtedly contrive to meet and enlighten him, either on the way or in Benares itself. In the long, tiresome, eventless journey that followed his faith was sorely tried; nor was it justified until the train paused some time after midnight at Mogul Serai. There, before Amber and Doggott could alight to change for Benares, their compartment was invaded by an unmistakable loafer, very drunk. Tall and burly; with red-rimmed eyes in a pasty pockmarked face, dirty and rusty with a week-old growth of beard; clothed with sublime contempt for the mode and exalted beyond reason with liquor-a typical loafer of the Indian railways-he flung the door open and himself into Amber's arms, almost knocking the latter down; and resented the accident at the top of his lungs. "You miserable, misbegotten blighter of a wall-eyed American--" At this point he became unprintably profane, and Doggott fell upon him with the laudable intention of throwing him out. In the struggle Amber caught his eye, and it was bright with meaning. "Pink Satin!" he hissed. "He's gone ahead.... You're to keep on to Agra.... Change for Badshah Junction, Rajputana Route.... Then tonga to Kuttarpur.... Farrell's there and his daughter.... That's right, my man, throw me out!..." His downfall was spectacular. In his enthusiasm for the part he played, he had erred to the extent of delivering a blow in Doggott's face more forcible, probably, than he had intended it to be. Promptly he landed...
