We reached the spot where Mr Sengupta’s body had been found. The clouds having dispersed, it was much brighter today. Sunlight streamed through the leaves to form little patterns on the ground here and there. There also appeared to be many more birds chirping in the trees. Lalmohan Babu gave a start each time he heard a bird call, thinking it was an alarm call for an approaching tiger. The body had been removed the same day. Torit Babu’s family in Calcutta had been informed, and his brother had arrived to take care of the funeral. There was no sign left of that hideous incident near the bamboo grove. Even so, Feluda began inspecting the ground closely, assisted by Madhavlal. The more I saw Madhavlal, the more I liked him. He seemed a cheerful fellow. He smiled often, which made deep creases appear on both sides of his mouth. Even when he didn’t smile, his eyes twinkled. He told us on the way that the news of the man-eater had spread through people in the Forest Department. Apparently, a number of shikaris had offered to kill it. Among them was a Mr Sapru, who had killed many tigers and other animals in the Terai. He was expected to arrive the next day. Now he stopped to chat with us and began telling us stories of the many expeditions he had been on. At this moment, Feluda called him from the bamboo grove. Madhavlal stopped his tale and went forward quickly, closely followed by Lalmohan Babu and myself. Feluda had raised no objection today to our getting out of the jeep. We found him kneeling on the ground, bending over a bamboo stem. ‘Take a look at this!’ he said to Madhavlal. Madhavlal glanced at it briefly and declared, ‘It was hit by a bullet, sir.’ There was a mark on the stem which I now saw. All of us—including Feluda—felt astounded. ‘Can you tell me how old that mark might be?’ Feluda asked, a little impatiently. ‘Not older than a couple of days,’ Madhavlal replied. ‘What can it mean?’ Feluda muttered, half to himself. ‘A sword . . . a gun . . . I’m getting all confused. Torit Sengupta was struck by the sword, then someone shot at the tiger but missed, by the looks of things. Or else . . .’ he broke off. Madhavlal had found something under the bamboo. I saw what it was only when I got closer. He was clutching what looked like fluff, about two inches in length. ‘Hair from the tiger’s body?’ Feluda asked. ‘Yes, sir. The bullet must have scraped one side.’ ‘Is that why the tiger ran away without finishing its meal?’ ‘Looks like it.’ Feluda began moving forward without another word. Madhavlal followed him, rifle in hand, his eyes alert. Lalmohan Babu and I placed ourselves between these two men, which struck us as the safest thing to do. Feluda was carrying a loaded revolver, but that wasn’t enough to deal with a man-eater.

The sound of an engine starting told me the driver of our jeep was following us. It meant that he would get closer, although he couldn’t actually be by our side for we had left the road and were now amidst the trees and bushes. Three minutes later, Feluda appeared to notice something on a thorny bush, and quickly made his way to it, walking diagonally to the right. There was a piece of green cloth stuck to it, which had undoubtedly come from Mr Sengupta’s shirt. The tiger had obviously come this way carrying his body, and the shirt had got stuck on that bush. When we started walking again, Madhavlal took the lead. He could probably guess which way the man-eater had come from. He moved with extreme caution, partly because we were behind him and partly because the area abounded with briar and other prickly plants. He stopped abruptly under a large tamarind tree, looking closely at the ground. We gathered around him and saw what had caught his attention. I had never seen such a thing before, but knew instantly I was looking at a pug mark. There were several others that seemed to have come from the same direction we were now going in. Lalmohan Babu whispered, ‘Is th-this a t-two legged tiger?’ Madhavlal laughed. ‘No,’ Feluda explained, ‘that is how a tiger walks. It puts its hind legs exactly where it puts its forelegs. So it seems as if it’s a two-legged animal.’ Madhavlal continued walking. I could no longer hear the jeep. A faint gurgling noise told me there was a nullah somewhere in the vicinity. Lalmohan Babu’s new boots, which had been squeaking rather loudly at first (‘ideal for arousing the man-eater’s curiosity,’ Feluda had remarked) were now silent, being heavily streaked with mud. We passed a silk-cotton tree, and then Madhavlal stopped again. ‘You have a revolver, sir, don’t you?’ he asked Feluda. His voice was low. A few yards ahead of us, something was emerging from the long grass, parting it to make its way. ‘Krait,’ Madhavlal said softly. I had read about kraits. They were extremely poisonous snakes. A second later, it came into view and stopped. It was black, striped with yellow. It had no hood. I did not see Feluda take out his revolver, but heard the earsplitting noise as he fired it. The head of the snake disappeared, and it was all over. A number of birds cried out, and a group of monkeys grew rather agitated, but the body of the snake lay still. ‘Shabaash!’ said Madhavlal. Lalmohan Babu made a noise that appeared to be a mixture of laughter, a sneeze and a cough. We resumed walking. The forest was not thick everywhere. The trees thinned to our left. ‘That’s where the nullah is,’ Madhavlal said, ‘and the area is rocky. Tigers often rest there during the day behind rocks and boulders. I suggest we walk straight on.’ We