Bulakiprasad’s wife made arahar daal and chicken curry for lunch. We did full justice to it, and then left in the car. Feluda was clearly as curious as Lalmohan Babu about the escaped tiger. He rang the local police station before we left. He had had to work with the police in Bihar on his last case, and Sarveshwar Sahai’s name was well known in Hazaribagh. The inspector who answered the phone— Inspector Raut—recognized Feluda’s name as soon as he had introduced himself and explained why he was calling. We did need help from the police to see the owner of the circus, under the present circumstances. ‘One of our men is posted outside the main entrance,’ Inspector Raut said. ‘He will let you in.’ Feluda told him he wanted to go there purely out of curiosity, not to start an investigation. On our way to the circus, we saw groups of men gathered around street corners, still talking animatedly. Near a big crossing, someone was actually beating a drum and shouting words of caution. Feluda stopped at a small stall to buy a packet of cigarettes. The stallholder told him the tiger had been seen near a village called Dahiri to the north of Hazaribagh, but there were no reports of any damage. My heart suddenly lifted at the sight of the tents as we got closer to the circus. It reminded me of all the circuses Feluda had taken me to when I was a small child. The blue-and-white striped tent of The Great Majestic Circus was very neat and tidy, which meant they were true professionals and knew their trade well. A yellow flag fluttered on top of the tent, and rows of bunting had been carefully arranged between the compound fence and the main entrance. Hundreds of people were jostling outside near the ticket counters. The show was going to go on even without the tiger. Various other posters showed what else the circus had to offer. The artist who had drawn them did not appear to be particularly gifted, but what he had managed was enough to arouse both curiosity and excitement. The constable on duty had been told about us. He gave Feluda a smart salute, and let us in immediately. ‘Mr Kutti—that’s the owner—has been informed, sir. He’s waiting for you in his room,’ the constable said. Behind the tent was an open space. It ended where a partition made with corrugated tin sheets began. Mr Kutti’s caravan stood just behind the partition. Like the tent, it was tidy and well maintained. There were rows of windows on both sides. Curtains with attractive patterns hung at these, through which the sun came in and formed patches on the furniture. Mr Kutti rose as he saw us arrive and shook our hands. Then he gestured towards a mini sofa. He seemed to be around fifty, although his hair had turned totally white. When he smiled, his teeth gleamed in the semi-darkness of the caravan.