Lalmohan Babu claimed afterwards that what happened later was related directly to his twitching eye. ‘A coincidence, Lalmohan Babu, that’s all it was,’ Feluda told him firmly. The Lounge Car of the Santiniketan Express was large enough to hold twenty-five people. But when we boarded the train, we discovered there were only seven others including two foreigners. Both were white. One was clean shaven with blond hair; the other had a thick beard. Long, dark hair rippled down to his shoulders. Something told me one of them was Peter Robertson. Ten minutes after the train started, I found that I was right. The three of us were sitting together on a sofa. I had never travelled in such a comfortable carriage. Feluda leant back and lit a Charminar. At this moment, the man with the blond hair, who happened to be sitting close by, stretched out a hand and said, ‘May I—?’ Feluda passed him his lighter and said, ‘Are you going to Bolpur?’ The man lit his own cigarette and returned the lighter to Feluda. Then he said, smiling and proffering his hand, ‘Yes. My name is Peter Robertson and this is my friend, Tom Maxwell.’ Feluda shook his hand, and then introduced us. ‘Was it your article that I read the other day?’ he asked. ‘Yes. Did you like it?’ ‘Oh yes. It was a very interesting article. Have you already handed that ruby to a museum?’ ‘No, it’s still with us. But we’ve spoken to the curator of the Calcutta Museum. He said he’d be very pleased to accept it if he gets the go-ahead from Delhi. Once that is confirmed, we’ll hand it over to him officially.’ ‘You have an Indian connection, I know. Does your friend?’ ‘Yes. Tom’s great-great-grandfather was the owner of an indigo factory in Birbhum. The British stopped growing indigo in India when the Germans found a way of producing it artificially and began selling it cheap. That was when Tom’s ancestor, Reginald Maxwell, returned to Britain. Tom and I were both bitten by the travel bug. We’ve travelled together quite often. He’s a professional photographer. I teach in a school.’ Tom was sitting with a leather bag resting at his feet. That must contain his camera and other equipment, I thought. ‘How long will you be in Birbhum?’ ‘About a week. Our main work is in Calcutta, but we’d like to see as many temples as we can in Birbhum.’ ‘There are many other things in Birbhum besides temples that are worth seeing. Maybe we could see them together? Anyway, going back to your article, hasn’t there been any feedback from your readers?’

‘Oh my God, yes! The Statesman began receiving dozens of letters within a couple of days. Some of them were from old maharajas, some from wealthy businessmen, or collectors of rare jewels. But I had made it quite plain in my article that I wasn’t prepared to sell it. You know, I had it valued in England before I came here. I could have sold it there, had I so wished. I was offered up to twenty thousand pounds.’ ‘You have the stone with you right here?’ ‘Tom’s got it. He’s a lot more careful than I am. Besides, he’s got a revolver that he can use, if need be.’ ‘May we see the ruby, please?’ ‘Of course.’ Peter looked at Tom. Tom picked up his leather bag and took out a small blue velvet box from it. He passed it to Feluda. Feluda opened it slowly, and all three of us gave an involuntary gasp. Not only was the stone large and beautifully cut, but its colour was such a deep red that it was really remarkable. Feluda held the ruby in his hand for a few seconds, turning it around and looking at it closely. Then he returned it to Tom, saying, ‘It’s amazing! But there’s something else I’d like to see, if I may. Will you show me your revolver, please? You see, I know something about firearms.’ He handed one of his visiting cards to Peter. ‘Good heavens!’ Peter exclaimed. ‘You’re a private investigator, are you? I’m glad we’ve met. If we have problems we might have to seek your help.’ ‘I hope it won’t come to that, but a lot depends on you, Mr Maxwell, for the ruby is with you for safe-keeping.’ Tom Maxwell said nothing in reply. He just took out his revolver and showed it to Feluda. It was not a Colt like Feluda’s. ‘Webley Scott,’ Feluda said, looking at it. Then he added, ‘May I ask you something?’ ‘Of course,’ said Tom, speaking for the first time. ‘Why do you need to keep a revolver with you?’ ‘My work takes me to all kinds of places, some of which are remote and dangerous. I’ve taken photographs of tribal people in jungles. Not all tribes are friendly, I can tell you. Having a revolver makes my job a lot easier. I once killed a black Mamba snake in Africa with this very revolver.’ ‘Have you been to India before?’ ‘No, this is my first visit.’ ‘Have you started taking photos?’ ‘Yes, I’ve taken some of a poor and congested area of Calcutta.’ ‘You mean a slum?’ ‘Yes, that’s right. I like taking pictures of people and places that are totally different from anything I’ve known or anything I’m familiar with. The stranger or more alien the subject, the better I find it to photograph. Poverty is, for instance, I think, far more photogenic than prosperity.’ ‘Photo—what?’ Lalmohan Babu whispered. ‘Photogenic. Something which looks good when photographed,’ Feluda explained. Lalmohan Babu gave me a sidelong glance and muttered softly, ‘Does he mean to say that a hungry, starving man is more photogenic than a well-fed one?’

Tom didn’t hear him. ‘I will take photographs here in India with the same idea in my mind,’ he added. I found his words and his attitude rather peculiar. Peter was undoubtedly a lover of