Since Feluda was now going to start reading the diaries, Lalmohan Babu and I decided to go for a drive soon after a cup of tea at four o’clock. ‘If we go towards the main town, we might get to hear the latest on Sultan,’ Lalmohan Babu told me. ‘Your cousin may have found a mystery related to Mahesh Chowdhury’s death, but I think an escaped tiger is much more interesting.’ We didn’t have far to go to get news of the tiger. We had to stop for petrol at a local station, where we saw another group of men gathered round someone who was speaking very rapidly. He raised a hand and pawed the air, so there was no doubt that he was talking of the tiger. Lalmohan Babu got out of the car and went forward to make enquiries. This wasn’t easy, for his Hindi was not particularly good. However, what we eventually managed to learn was this: To the east of Hazaribagh was a forest, near the town of Vishnugarh. Sultan’s new trainer, Chandran, and a shikari from the Forest Department, had found Sultan there. Apparently, it had looked for a while that the tiger was willing to be captured, but he had then changed his mind and run away again after clawing Chandran. The shikari had shot at him, but no one knew whether the tiger was hurt. Chandran was in a hospital, but his injuries were not serious. ‘Do you know anything about Kandarikar?’ Lalmohan Babu asked his informant. I felt obliged to correct him. ‘It is Karandikar, Lalmohan Babu, not Kandarikar. He’s the old trainer.’ ‘No, I don’t know anything about him,’ the man replied, ‘but I do believe the circus isn’t doing so well since the main show with the tiger is off.’ We were both curious to know how Mr Karandikar had reacted to the news of Sultan being shot at, so we went from the petrol station straight to the Great Majestic. Normally, if Feluda accompanies us, Lalmohan Babu keeps to the background. Today, however, he walked up smartly to the man outside the main entrance and said, ‘Put me through to Mr Kutti, please.’ God knows what the man thought of this strange request, but he let us in without a word. Perhaps he had recognized us from our first visit. We found Mr Kutti in his caravan, but what he told us sounded like another mysterious riddle. Karandikar had disappeared the previous night. ‘The audience has been demanding to see the tiger,’ Mr Kutti said. ‘I went and personally apologized to Karandikar. I promised him I wouldn’t allow anyone else to train the tiger, if it could be captured. Even so, he left without telling a soul. He used to go off occasionally, but he always came back in a few hours. This time . . . I don’t think he’s coming back.’ There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. We thanked Mr Kutti and left the