Street where passports were made out for Afghanistan, Central Asia, and the North.
For he had made up his mind to leave Calcutta, India, to go clear, clear away—out into the far, yellow, brooding heart of Asia.
Perhaps Ali Yusuf Khan had been right.
Perhaps the old, tired, patient soul of Asia needed men like himself, young and strong and unhappy …
But when he stated his errand to Sir James Rivet-Carnac, the official in charge, that crimson-necked, purse-mouthed knight smiled in his most pinchbeck manner.
He toyed with his visitor's card.
“Pardon me,” he said, “but are you by any chance that Hector Wade who …”
“I am!” came the terse reply. “What about it?”
“Only that the British-Indian government has a certain prestige to keep up in the North, in Central Asia—with Russia so infernally close, you know. We can't grant passports to”—he coughed; then, brutally—“to people of your kidney, Mr. Wade. What would the natives think of us? Good day, sir.”
And, as Hector was about to cross the threshold:
“By the way, no use trying to cross the border without a passport. I am going to have you watched. Fair warning, don't you know.”
He turned to his assistant after Hector had left:
“I wager long odds that young beggar made up his mind to go North, passport or no passport. Jolly determined looking, what? Too bad he did that foolish, caddish thing. Such a frightful waste of material
