“No,” I said, “of course not. But your writing seems to be concerned with people and their struggle for”—I nearly said integrity, but changed it at the last moment—“independence. It occurred to me that the context of an Indian ‘native state’ would give a writer of your calibre considerable scope. The political world in microcosm.”

He stared at me, either because he hadn’t thought of such a topic, or because he hadn’t thought anyone else would. Finally he pulled himself together enough to say, “Microcosm, yes.”

“I mean to say, the maharaja seems a benevolent enough dictator, but still, one has to ask oneself about the people living under him. Take the poor coolies yesterday, one of them was rather badly hurt by a boar, and all because we—”

But Trevor Wilson was not listening. His gaze had gone inward, and he abruptly stood and dropped his table napkin on his plate. He took two steps away before his manners recalled him enough to turn back and say, “Excuse me, Miss, er . . .” Then he was gone, leaving me staring open-mouthed at his retreating back. So much for my idea of picking the brain of the maharaja’s secretary for his master’s inner thoughts.

Faith and Lyn had finished their meal, and paused by my table on their way to the terrace. “More pigs today?” Faith asked, a sparkle in her eye.

I laughed. “I don’t think I could even look at a horse for another couple of days. His Highness is showing me the zoo this morning, but I thought maybe this afternoon I might walk into the city and have a look at the bazaar.”

“Would you like some company?”

“I’d love it. Shall I send word, when I’ve returned from admiring the bison and orangutans?”

“That would be fine.”

“I won’t be joining you,” Lyn said. “I have a date with a novel.”

Not, I noted, with a piece of sculpture. I finished my coffee, glancing through a copy of The Times that was only three days old. A few minutes before nine o’clock, I presented myself to the chuprassi outside my door for guidance to the “toy room.”

We set off as if going to the main block with the durbar hall and ball-room, but continued on to the western wing, mostly hidden from the gardens by large trees. Its shaded arcade was chilly, the marble floor damp enough to require caution in places. The electrical lights that brightened the guest quarters, it appeared, had not extended here, and a faint odour of lamp-oil betrayed the means of illumination.

We travelled for nearly ten minutes around the great inner garden and down the twisting passages before the chuprassi stopped at a door that had been painted a startling blue. He held it open, then closed it behind me; I was alone.