He maintained that in a Hindu family of his acquaintance there
had been transmitted the secret of a drug, capable of altering a
man's whole temperament until the antidote was administered. It
would turn a coward into a bravo, a miser into a spendthrift, a
rake into a fakir. Then, having delivered his manifesto he got
up abruptly and went to bed.

I followed him to his room, for something in the story had
revived a memory. By dint of much persuasion I dragged from the
somnolent George various details. The family in question were
Beharis, large landholders dwelling near the Nepal border. He
had known old Ram Singh for years, and had seen him twice since
his return from England. He got the story from him under no
promise of secrecy, for the family drug was as well known in the
neighbourhood as the nine incarnations of Krishna. He had no
doubt about the truth of it, for he had positive proof. "And
others besides me," said George. "Do you remember when Vennard
had a lucid interval a couple of years ago and talked sense for
once? That was old Ram Singh's doing, for he told me about it."

Three years ago it seems the Government of India saw fit to
appoint a commission to inquire into land tenure on the Nepal
border. Some of the feudal Rajahs had been "birsing yont," like
the Breadalbanes, and the smaller zemindars were gravely
disquieted. The result of the commission was that Ram Singh had
his boundaries rectified, and lost a mile or two of country which
his hard-fisted fathers had won.

I know nothing of the rights of the matter, but there can be no
doubt about Ram Singh's dissatisfaction. He appealed to the law