IN the morning he wondered if all that he could call to mind were part of a waking or a sleeping vision.
He was soon reminded. A chorus of questions greeted him when he appeared at breakfast. “You certainly had a long talk with the boss last night,” began the American. “We meant to wait up for you, but we got tired. What sort of a guy is he?”
“Did he say anything about the porters?” asked Mallinson eagerly.
“I hope you mentioned to him about having a missionary stationed here,” said Miss Brinklow.
The bombardment served to raise in Conway his usual defensive armament. “I’m afraid I’m probably going to disappoint you all,” he replied, slipping easily into the mood. “I didn’t discuss with him the question of missions; he didn’t mention the porters to me at all; and as for his appearance, I can only say that he’s a very old man who speaks excellent English and is quite intelligent.”
Mallinson cut in with irritation: “The main thing to us is whether he’s to be trusted or not. Do you think he means to let us down?”
“He didn’t strike me as a dishonorable person.”
“Why on earth didn’t you worry him about the porters?”
“It didn’t occur to me.”
Mallinson stared at him incredulously. “I can’t understand you, Conway. You were so damned good in that Baskul affair that I can hardly believe you’re the same man. You seem to have gone all to pieces.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No good being sorry. You ought to buck up and look as if you cared what happens.”
“You misunderstand me. I meant that I was sorry to have disappointed you.”
Conway’s voice was curt, an intended mask to his feelings, which were, indeed, so mixed that they could hardly have been guessed by others. He had slightly surprised himself by the ease with which he had prevaricated; it was clear that he intended to observe the High Lama’s suggestion and keep the secret. He was also puzzled by the naturalness with which he was accepting a position which his companions would certainly and with some justification think traitorous; as Mallinson had said, it was hardly the sort of thing to be expected of a hero. Conway felt a sudden half-pitying fondness for the youth; then he steeled himself by reflecting that people who hero-worship must be prepared for disillusionments. Mallinson at Baskul had been far too much the new boy adoring the handsome games-captain, and now the games-captain was tottering if not already fallen from the pedestal. There was always something a little pathetic in the smashing of an ideal, however false; and Mallinson’s admiration might have been at least a partial solace for the strain of pretending to be what he was not. But pretense was impossible anyway. There was a quality in the air of Shangri-La – perhaps due to its altitude – that forbade one the effort of counterfeit emotion.
He said: “Look here, Mallinson, it’s no use harping continually on Baskul. Of course I was different then – it was a completely different situation.”
“And a much healthier one in my opinion. At least we knew what we were up against.”
“Murder and rape – to be precise. You can call that healthier if you like.”
The youth’s voice rose in pitch as he retorted: “Well, I do call it healthier – in one sense. It’s something I’d rather face than all this mystery business.” Suddenly he added: “That Chinese girl, for instance – how did she get here? Did the fellow tell you?”
“No. Why should he?”
“Well, why shouldn’t he? And why shouldn’t you ask, if you had any interest in the matter at all? Is it usual to find a young girl living with a lot of monks?”
That way of looking at it was one that had scarcely occurred to Conway before. “This isn’t an ordinary monastery,” was the best reply he could give after some thought.
“My God, it isn’t!”