There is
some shooting to be had, and you will see for yourself the sort of
country between here and Taghati."

"But people come over here sometimes."

"Yes, from the south, or by Afghanistan."

"Not always. What about the Korabaut Pass into Chitral? Ianoff and the
Cossacks came through it."

"That's true," said the man, as if in deep thought. "I had forgotten,
but the band was small and the thing was a real adventure."

"And then you have Gromchevtsky. He brought his people right down
through the Pamirs."

For a second the man's laughing ease deserted him. He leaned his head
forward and peered keenly into Lewis's face. Then, as if to cover his
discomposure, he fell into the extreme of bluff amusement. The
exaggeration was plain to both his hearers.

"Oh yes, there was poor old Gromchevtsky. But then you know he was what
you call 'daft,' and one never knew how much to believe. He had hatred
of the English on the brain, and he went about the northern valleys
making all sorts of wild promises on the part of the Tsar. A great
Russian army was soon to come down from the hills and restore the
valleys to their former owners. And then, after he had talked all this
nonsense, and actually managed to create some small excitement among the
tribesmen, the good fellow disappeared. No man knows where he went.
The odd thing is that I believe he has never been heard of again in
Russia to this day. Of course his mission, as he loved to call it, was
perfectly unauthorized, and the man himself was a creature of farce. He
probably came either by the Khyber or the Korabaut Pass, possibly even
by the ordinary caravan-route from Yarkand, but felt it necessary for
his mission's sake to pretend he had found some way through the rock
barrier. I am afraid I cannot allow him to be taken seriously."

Lewis yawned and reached out his hand for the cigars. "In any case it
is merely a question of speculative interest. We shall not fall just
yet, though you think so badly of us."

"You will not fall just yet," said Marker slowly, "but that is not your
fault. You British have sold your souls for something less than the
conventional mess of pottage. You are ruled in the first place by
money-bags, and the faddists whom they support to blind your eyes. If I
were a young man in your country with my future to make, do you know
what I would do? I would slave in the Stock Exchange. I would spend my
days and nights in the pursuit of fortune, and, by