We were back in our room after dinner, chatting idly, when Lalmohan Babu suddenly announced that he must return to his room. ‘Why? What’s the hurry?’ Feluda asked. ‘It’s that book Shatadal gave me. You know, the one written by Rev. Pritchard called Life and Work in Birbhum. It’s absolutely gripping. In fact, there’s mention of the story we just heard from Maxwell about a punkha-puller being kicked to death.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Yes. This happened towards the end of the nineteenth century. Reginald Maxwell killed his servant, but no one punished him for doing so . . . The punkha-puller was called Hiralal. His wife had died, but he had a little boy. When Rev. Pritchard heard about the murder, he rushed to Maxwell’s house, and found the orphan boy. He brought the child back with him and began looking after him as though he was his own. The child was called Anant Narayan. Eventually, he became a Christian and was put in a missionary school. Now I am dying to find out what happened next. So if you’ll excuse . . .’ Someone knocked on the door. I found Peter standing outside. ‘May I come in?’ ‘Of course.’ Feluda rose. Lalmohan Babu, who was about to leave, changed his mind and sat down again. Peter looked extremely unhappy. Something serious must have happened. ‘What’s the matter, Peter?’ Feluda asked. ‘I have decided to sell the ruby.’ ‘What! Why? Oh, do sit down, Peter. Tell us what happened.’ Peter sat down. ‘I don’t want to lose an old friend. Tom is totally obsessed with the idea of selling that ruby. His dream is to travel all over the world, and that dream can come true if the ruby is sold. I thought things over, and felt there was no point in giving it away to a museum. After all, how many people would really get to see it, tell me? So I thought . . .’ his voice trailed away. Feluda frowned. After a short pause, he said, ‘Well, it’s your decision. Who am I to say anything? I am disappointed, but it’s really none of my business, is it?’ ‘When do you want to sell it?’ Lalmohan Babu asked. ‘I’ve just spoken to Dandania. He made the first offer, so I think I should go back to him. He told me to meet him the day after tomorrow at ten.’ ‘I thought your return to India would result in a historic event,’ Feluda said sadly, ‘but now all one would get to see would be a simple commercial transaction.’ ‘I am very sorry,’ said Peter, and left. We sat in silence, feeling terribly deflated and let down.

We had planned to visit Bakreshwar the following morning. We had just finished our breakfast and reached the lounge, when Mr Naskar arrived in his car. ‘Good morning,’ he said, coming in to the reception area. ‘Good morning.’ ‘Would you like to see a Santhal dance this evening? A dance has been arranged in the Phulberey village. It should be worth seeing, especially as there’s going to be a full moon tonight.’ ‘Who has arranged it?’ ‘The local people, for a group of Japanese tourists. I’ve come to invite all of you to dinner at my place this evening. If you’re interested in seeing the dance, I can take you there myself, after dinner. The village is only two miles from my house.’ ‘Does your invitation include Peter and Tom?’ Feluda asked. ‘Yes, yes, of course. All five of you are invited.’ ‘Thank you very much. When would you like us to arrive?’ ‘About eight, if that’s all right. Should I send my car?’ ‘There’s no need. We can quite easily go in ours. There shouldn’t be any problem.’ ‘Very well. I shall look forward to seeing you later. Good day!’ Bakreshwar turned out to be a place that hadn’t bothered to step out of primitive times. There were rows of old temples behind which stood several large trees. Most of these were banyan trees. Huge roots hung down from these and clung to the temple walls. Nearly every temple had its own pond. Jagannath Chatterjee, who had accompanied us again, told us what each pond was called. Peter stopped at one called ‘Soubhagya Kunda’, and went in for a swim. Someone had told him what ‘soubhagya’ meant. So he laughed as he came up and said, ‘This should bring me good luck!’ There were scores of beggars near the temples. Tom took out his camera and soon found several people with special photogenic-features. Half an hour after our return to the tourist lodge, Inspector Chaubey rang Feluda. ‘Did you know there’s going to be a Santhal dance later today?’ he asked. ‘Yes, Mr Naskar told us. In fact, we’re going to have dinner at his place this evening. He’s offered to take us to the dance afterwards. We should reach there by 10 p.m.’ ‘Good. I hope to get there by half past ten, so I guess that’s where we shall meet tonight.’ Mr Naskar had given us very good directions. We found his house without any problem. It was a fairly large house with two storeys and a carefully maintained garden. Mr. Naskar came out to greet us as we got out of our car, and then took us straight to his drawing room. A bearer came in with drinks almost immediately. ‘You stay here alone, don’t you?’ Feluda asked, picking up a cold drink from a tray. ‘Yes, but I have a lot of friends. We normally arrive in groups to spend a few days here. This time, I came alone.’ Mr Naskar suddenly turned to Lalmohan Babu. ‘I had heard of Mr Mitter, but I don’t think I got your name—?’ ‘Most people don’t know his real name,’ Feluda answered. ‘He writes crime thrillers under a pseudonym. Millions know him simply as Jatayu. His books are immensely popular.’ ‘Yes, yes, now that you mention . . . why, I’ve