He tied up his horse outside the station, and strode on to the platform.

“Hullo, Mahbub Ali” said a young Assistant District Traffic Superintendent who was waiting to go down the line⁠—a tall, tow-haired, horsey youth in dingy white linen. “What are you doing here? Selling weeds⁠—eh?”

“No; I am not troubled for my horses. I come to look for Lutuf Ullah. I have a truck-load up the line. Could anyone take them out without the Railway’s knowledge?”

“Shouldn’t think so, Mahbub. You can claim against us if they do.”

“I have seen two men crouching under the wheels of one of the trucks nearly all night. Fakirs do not steal horses, so I gave them no more thought. I would find Lutuf Ullah, my partner.”

“The deuce you did? And you didn’t bother your head about it? ’Pon my word, it’s just almost as well that I met you. What were they like, eh?”

“They were only fakirs. They will no more than take a little grain, perhaps, from one of the trucks. There are many up the line. The State will never miss the dole. I came here seeking for my partner, Lutuf Ullah.”

“Never mind your partner. Where are your horse-trucks?”

“A little to this side of the farthest place where they make lamps for the trains.”

“The signal-box! Yes.”

“And upon the rail nearest to the road upon the right-hand side⁠—looking up the line thus. But as regards Lutuf Ullah⁠—a tall man with a broken nose, and a Persian greyhound⁠—Aie!”