indiscreet, but a good chance to pretend to be. He was a judge of those matters.

"There have been eighteen rajahs of Sialpore in direct succession father
to son," he said, swinging a beautiful buff-leather boot into view by
crossing his knee, and looking at her narrowly with the air of a man who
unfolds confidences. "The first man began accumulating treasure.
Every single rajah since has added to it. Each man has confided the
secret to his successor and to none else--father to son, you understand.
When Bubru Singh, the last man, died he had no son. The secret
died with him."

"How does anybody know that there's a secret then?" demanded Tess.

"Everybody knows it! The money was raised by taxes. Minister after
minister in turn has had to hand over minted gold to the reigning rajah--"

"And look the other way, I suppose, while the rajah hid the stuff!"
suggested Tess.

Samson screwed up his face like a man who has taken medicine.

"There are dozens of ways in a native state of getting rid of men who
know too much."

"Even under British overrule?"

He nodded. "Poison--snakes--assassination--jail on trumped-up charges,
and disease in jail--apparent accidents of all sorts. It doesn't pay to know
too much."