No men died ever by the silken cord, and no tales ever reached the outside world of who did die down in the echoing brick cellars; there was a path that led underground to the alligator tank and a trap-door that opened just above the water edge.

Night, and the fungus-fouled long jaws, and slimy, weed-filled water--the creak of rusty hinges--a splash--the bang of a falling trap--a swirl in the moonlit water, and ring after heavy, widening ring that lapped at last against the stone would write conclusion to a tragedy.

There would be no record kept.
Howrah was childless.

That, of all the hell-sent troubles that beset him, was the worst.

That alone was worse than the hoarded treasure whose secret he and his brother and the priests of Siva shared.