Inspector Chaubey returned to our room at 5 p.m. The announcement he made wasn’t altogether unexpected, but nevertheless we were all somewhat taken aback. ‘The mystery is cleared up,’ he said. ‘I was right. Jagannath Chatterjee took the stone. When I searched his house, I didn’t find it at first; but a few threats from the police can often work wonders, as they did in this case. Chatterjee broke down and confessed in the end. He even returned the stone to me. Do you know where he had hidden it? In a flower-pot!’ ‘Have you brought it here?’ ‘Yes, naturally.’ Chaubey took it out of his pocket. It lay on his palm, glowing softly under the light. It felt strange to look at it. ‘How very odd!’ Feluda exclaimed. ‘What’s odd?’ ‘Chatterjee might well be a thief, but somehow I can’t see him lifting a heavy object and striking someone with it. He wouldn’t have the nerve, Inspector. He doesn’t look the type.’ ‘Don’t judge anyone by his looks, Mr Mitter.’ ‘Yes, you’re right. My own experience has taught me just that. And yet . . .’ Feluda broke off, frowning. ‘Shall we go now and return this stone to its owner?’ Chaubey asked. ‘Yes, let’s do that.’ We left our room and made our way to Peter’s. Peter himself opened the door. Tom was with him. ‘Well, Mr Robertson,’ said Chaubey, ‘I have a little gift for you.’ ‘A gift?’ Silently, Chaubey handed the ruby back to Peter. Peter’s mouth fell open. ‘I don’t believe this! Where—how—?’ ‘Never mind all that, Mr Robertson. Just be happy that you’ve got it back. Mr Maxwell,’ I hope you’ll now agree that the Indian police isn’t altogether stupid and incompetent. Anyway, now you must decide what you want to do with it.’ Peter and Tom had both risen to their feet. Now they sank back into their chairs. Peter said softly, ‘Good show, Inspector. Congratulations!’ ‘Thanks. May I now take your leave?’ asked Chaubey. ‘I . . . I don’t know how to thank you!’ Tom spoke unexpectedly. ‘You don’t have to. That the thought of saying thanks crossed your mind is good enough for me. Goodbye!’

‘What are you thinking, Felu Babu?’ Lalmohan Babu asked over breakfast the next day. ‘There is something wrong . . . somewhere . . .’ muttered Feluda absent-mindedly. ‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong. For the first time, the police caught the criminal before you. The inspector won, Felu Babu, and you lost. That’s what’s wrong.’ ‘No. The thing is, you see, I cannot believe that the case is over, and there’s nothing for me to do.’ Feluda grew preoccupied again. Then he said, ‘Topshe, why don’t you and Lalmohan Babu go for a walk? I need to be alone. I need to think again.’ ‘We can sit in my room. Come on, Tapesh.’ ‘I don’t like this, Tapesh, my boy,’ Lalmohan Babu said, offering me a chair in his room. ‘We got such a good opportunity to solve a mystery, and yet it just slipped through our fingers. Maybe it’s because my left eye was twitching? No, I mean seriously, is your cousin all right? He looked tired, as though he hadn’t slept very well.’ ‘He sat up late reading the book you gave him. I don’t know what time he went to bed, but he was up at five this morning to do his yoga.’ ‘Topshe!’ called Feluda from outside. His voice sounded urgent. Why had he followed us? Was anything wrong? I opened the door quickly. Feluda rushed in and said, ‘We have to go and see Chaubey, immediately.’ ‘What happened?’ ‘I’ll tell you later.’ ‘OK.’ We were both ready to go out in just a few seconds. ‘To Dubrajpur,’ said Feluda to the driver. ‘We need to find the police station there.’ This was not difficult. Our car went straight to the police station and stopped before the main gate. The constable on duty looked up enquiringly as we got out. ‘May we see Inspector Chaubey?’ Feluda asked. ‘Yes, please come this way.’ Chaubey was in his room, going through some files. He looked up with a mixture of pleasure and surprise. ‘Oh, what brings you here?’ ‘There is something we need to talk about.’ ‘Very well. Please sit down. Would you like a cup of tea?’ ‘No, thanks. We’ve just had breakfast.’ ‘I see. So what can I do for you?’ ‘There’s just one thing I’d like you to tell me.’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Are you a Christian?’ Chaubey raised his eyebrows. Then he smiled and said, ‘Why do you suddenly need to know that, Mr Mitter?’ ‘There’s a reason. Are you?’ ‘Yes, I am a Christian. But how did you guess?’

‘Well, I saw you eat with your left hand, more than once. At first I paid no attention, but later it struck me as odd since Hindus—unless they’re left-handed—prefer using their right hands to eat. I wondered if you were a Christian, but didn’t ask at the time for I didn’t realize it might have a special significance. I think I now know what it means.’ ‘Really? So what does it signify, Mr Mitter? You didn’t come all this way just to tell me you’d guessed my religion, did you?’ ‘No. Allow me to ask you another question.’ ‘Go ahead.’ ‘Who was the first in your family to become a Christian?’ ‘My grandfather.’ ‘What was his name?’ ‘Anant Narayan.’ ‘What was his son called?’ ‘Charles Premchand.’ ‘And his son?’ ‘Richard Shankar Prasad.’ ‘That’s you, isn’t it?’ · ‘Yes.’ ‘Was your great-grandfather called Hiralal?’ ‘Yes, but how did you—?’ Chaubey had stopped smiling. He only looked amazed and bewildered. ‘It was the same Hiralal who used to pull the punkha for Reginald Maxwell. Am I right?’ ‘Yes, but you have to tell me how you learnt all this.’ ‘From a book written by a Rev. Pritchard. He took charge of Anant Narayan after Hiralal’s death, made him a Christian and helped him