Thus it was that I went down the stairs in a fog, walked to the breakfast room and automatically chose foodstuffs from the buffet, wanting only to lean up against a post and go to sleep. It wasn’t until I saw Gay Kaur’s face that I woke up, fast.

“Good Lord, Miss Kaur! What happened?”

The brown face smiled crookedly beneath the swollen lip and the sticking-plaster on her cheekbone. “You sound so like your sister,” she said, and gingerly sipped from her cup of tea.

I pulled myself together. Martin; you’re Martin, I recited fiercely, lowering my voice, resuming my formality, and surreptitiously straightening my spine for its absent uniform. “It’s been the cause of more than one confusing telephone conversation,” I told her. “Seriously, that looks rather nasty. How did you do that?”

“I got in the way of an angry beast,” she said. “Not the first time. I must learn to be more careful.”

The contusions showed no sign of claw, hoof, or tooth; I could not help speculating that the beast had two legs. She changed the subject.

“I understand that you and Captain Nesbit are to be singularly honoured today.”

“Yes? How is that?”

“You didn’t know? Jimmy’s taking the two of you out with him, no one else.”

“I was only told that the horses were being brought out. Pig again?” I thought it slightly out of the ordinary for the maharaja to repeat his sporting activities that soon. Perhaps Nesbit’s presence, and their shared passion, made shooting or cheetah-coursing less appealing.

But Miss Kaur shrugged nervously and said, “I really don’t know. It sounded rather as if he’d got something special arranged.”

With that I recalled the maharaja’s final words to us the previous evening, long hours before. What had it been? Something about the Kadir Cup, and how Britain’s honour will demand that India lose—yes, and it had been followed by the thrown-gauntlet statement, “Let us see what you do with my entertainment tomorrow.”

If we were going ahead with the maharaja’s plans, then it would seem that he had not yet received news of a prisoner’s escape. I ate my eggs without tasting them, trying to envision the details of the cells. Would breakfast have been handed the prisoner, or simply shoved beneath the door? Yes, I decided, the door to Holmes’ cell had certainly been far enough off the stones to allow for a tray to be slid beneath. In which case, O’Hara’s absence might well go undiscovered until the guard went to retrieve the breakfast utensils.

It seemed likely that our day would end abruptly at noon.

Permitting us to creep silently off to our beds.