The bullocks were obliging, and the party set off at a good pace, Ghufoor Khan and his men attaching themselves, just as Fairbrother had anticipated, and continuing their chanting. Again, it amused him to think what the Khan had planned: the lughaees would already be this side of the river, digging a pit at the appointed place; the bhuttotes, the stranglers, would be across next, in an hour or so, and would move quickly to make up time, joining their master before evening, or wherever it was they’d arranged. Doubtless the Khan was confident that he himself and his three henchmen could do the deed if it were necessary, for to him this sahoukar and his servants – and their sick companion – must hardly look fearsome.

The sun was now high, the heat growing – the time for refreshment and rest. It would be no strange thing to find some shade and boil up a little coffee, and rice. Ghufoor Khan would be only too pleased at the delay; the rest of his men would be with him sooner.

Three-quarters of a mile on, Fairbrother found a good spot. The road was clear in both directions, not a soul even in the fields, such as they were, and no village for another mile and more. A sal grove offered shade – and cover for what he intended.

The syce led the bullock cart to the edge, just as the baboo instructed. Ghufoor Khan and his men kept so close to it that they didn’t see the corporals and Private Askew slip into the grove. When the baboo said, ‘The huzoor invites you to take refreshment with him’, they were at once delighted.

A bearer spread a mat and Fairbrother bid them sit – exactly as the thugs would with their victims. He couldn’t resist a smile of satisfaction, but again to himself.

The instant they were settled, Fairbrother still courteously on his feet, out from the sleeve of his kurta came the service pistol, and out from the sal sprang Askew and the corporals.

Surprise was complete. Fairbrother lost no time: while Askew and the corporals pulled the three others aside and the bearers bound their hands and feet, he slipped a yellow scarf round the Khan’s neck.

‘You are Ghufoor Khan. You are wanted for murder. Tell me why I should not strangle you here and now, as you have strangled others!’

The baboo translated excitedly.

‘No, no, huzoor! I am humble merchant and pilgrim!’

Again baboo-sahib translated, but there was hardly need.

‘Banji Lal!’ shouted Fairbrother.

Out from the bullock cart jumped the approver, though none too boldly.

‘Do you recognize this man, Banji Lal?’

‘Accha, sahib. He is Ghufoor Khan.’

The Khan’s eyes – murderous – left no doubt.

Fairbrother yanked the scarf and dug the pistol into his neck.

‘You will tell me where is Arjan Brar.’

‘I not know who is Arjan Brar.’

‘Speak to him, Banji Lal. Tell him we know all, and will hang him and his accomplices here and now if he doesn’t oblige.’