There were two doors to Sita Ram's small office; two to Samson's
large one--three doors in all, because they shared the connecting one
(that was locked just now) in common. At the first sound of the long-
awaited heavy footsteps on the outer porch Sita Ram hurried to do the
honors, and presently ushered into Samson's presence the enormous
bulk of the high priest, spreading a clean cloth for him on an easy chair
because the priest's caste put it out of the question for him to sit on
leather defiled by European trousers.

Then, while the customary salaams were taking place, and the customary
questions about health and other matters that neither cared a fig about,
Sita Ram ostentatiously drew a curtain part-way over the connecting
door, and retired by way of the other door and the passage to remove
the knot from its hole.

It was part of Samson's pride, and one of his stoutest rungs in the ladder
of preferment, that be knew more Indian languages than any other man
of his rank in the service, and knew them well. There were asterisks
and stars and twiggly marks against his name in the blue book that
would have passed muster as a secret code, and every one of them
betokened passed examinations in some Eastern tongue. So he was
fully able to meet the high priest on his own ground, as well as conscious
of the advantage he held to begin with, in that the priest had come to
him instead of his going to the priest.

"Well?" he demanded, cutting the pleasantries short abruptly as soon
as Sita Ram had closed the door.

"I came to speak of politics."