Surely the lady of Gujerat was right.
So far his thoughts had carried him when across the window there fell a shadow, and a young officer of the Khyber Rifles passed by to the door.
Captain Singleton was announced, and a boy--or so he looked--dark-haired and sunburnt, entered the office.

For eighteen months he had been stationed in the fort at Landi Kotal, whence the road dips down between the bare brown cliffs towards the plains and mountains of Afghanistan.
With two other English officers he had taken his share in the difficult task of ruling that regiment of wild tribesmen which, twice a week, perched in threes on some rocky promontory, or looking down from a machicolated tower, keeps open the Khyber Pass from dawn to dusk and protects the caravans.

The eighteen months had written their history upon his face; he stood before Ralston, for all his youthful looks, a quiet, self-reliant man.
"I have come down on leave, sir," he said.

"On the way I fetched Rahat Mian out of his house and brought him in to Peshawur." Ralston looked up with interest.
"Any trouble ?" he asked.
"I took care there should be none." Ralston nodded.
"He had better be safely lodged.

Where is he ?" "I have him outside." Ralston rang for lights, and then said to Singleton: "Then, I'll see him now." And in a few minutes an elderly white-bearded man, dressed from head to foot in his best white robes, was shown into the room.
"This is his Excellency," said Captain Singleton, and Rahat Mian bowed with dignity and stood waiting.