SECRET DESPATCHES
Nushapore, however, was not all wise; very far from it. Out of its two
hundred and odd thousand souls, there were some to whom the possibility
of disturbances meant a long-looked-for opportunity of indulging--with
comparative safety--in criminal habits. And there were many also, who,
without any special desire for evil, regretted the diminishing chance
of a night's excitement and amusement.
At first some of these found solace in the catastrophe at the
kite-flyers' bastion; though, after a time, this proved to be less
disastrous than might have been expected, for, out of all those who
were known to have been on the building, only two or three were
even injured. Jehân Aziz, it is true, had disappeared, but even
in the first knowledge of this, the fact brought scarcely a word of
regret--especially in the Royal Family. It felt vaguely that it stood a
better chance without him, even though the next heir was not close
enough to that dead dynasty to hope for the practical recognition of an
increased pension from Government!
Neither did the sight of Burkut Ali being carried off to hospital on a
stretcher distress it much. But it had a word or two of encouragement
and sympathy for Lateefa who, still clinging to his kites, refused all
help as he sat propped against a wall waiting for the numbness to pass
from his legs--as it must pass, since he had no pain.
Of Jân-Ali-shân and Chris no one thought on that side of the bridge;
for the simple reason that the disaster to the bastion absorbed all
tongues for a time, and, in addition, beyond the fact that there had
been some fighting for the bridge, no one knew anything.
In the station, also, there was no one to explain what had happened.
The _baboo_, who might have told what he knew, had, in that interval of
suspense, discreetly fled to his lodgings in the city, where he was
trying to concoct _alibis_.
It was only on the bathing-steps that anything definite was known, and
there a curious consternation had followed immediately on the rapid
raid made by those two through the temple. For, when the brief tumult
of resistance had passed with their passage, the only trace of it that
remained was fateful, beyond words, to the superstitious eyes which saw
it.
Swâmi Viseshwar Nâth, the high priest of Shiv-_jee_, lay with crushed
skull on _Mai_ Kâli's very lap! His blood was pouring out upon her
altar; yet, despite the blow which all had seen, despite the crash
which all had heard, not one of her many widespread arms was injured!
Here was a miracle indeed! For what had been her words on that golden
paper which she had flung, in defiance as it were, into the temple of
her rival?
'_Yea! though they smite me, there shall be Blood upon Mine Altar_.'
And there was. The blood of the arch-detractor of Her Supremacy.
A miracle indeed! to be affirmed or denied to the exclusion of all
other thoughts.
And so, on those wide steps leading down to the river, the newcomers,
hastening thither at vague rumours of strange doings--stranger even
than fixed bayonets at the city gates--were caught in the conflict of
opinions and held captive by the question--
'Would _Mai_ Kâli stay the plague now, as She had promised to do when
there was blood upon Her altars, or would She not?'
In other words, dare men--mere men--take the remedy into their own
hands, and risk offending the Great Goddess by lack of faith?
Would it not be better to wait a bit and see what happened? So, coming
and going on the steps--coming in fierce haste, going in awestruck
doubt--men asked themselves if their part was to wait and watch. But,
inside the temple, two poor souls crouched in a corner knew what their
part as women must be; and therefore, after a time of fruitless
waiting, they stole out hand-in-hand and went back to the city, back to
their empty house, realising but one thing: that the stray sheep which
had been lost and found, had gone astray once more; had defied the
priests, perhaps killed his _guru_.
And they had left that house empty with such joy, believing they were
to bring their dear one back to it! And now, to whom were they to go
for advice; for weddings and burials--since such things must be--if
Viseshwar Nâth was dead? Viseshwar who had known all things concerning
the family? So they wept, not knowing that his death made future
happiness for one of them possible.
The city itself was by this time like a hive of bees about to swarm,
which is disturbed by a finger-touch. People hurried hither and thither
causelessly; excited, anxious, yet harmless; for those who had meant to
give the cue for action hung back at the sight of the soldiers. Yet
many of these would-be mischief-makers had not quite given up hope, and
their unwillingness to do so, strangely enough, was in inverse ratio to
their hope of achieving any good by raising a riot. For, while every
minute that passed showed the more reasonable, the more interested,
that wisdom lay in postponement, those who had very little stake or
thought in the matter beyond a general desire to kick over the traces,
grew more and more desperate as the opportunity for this seemed to be
slipping from them. Govind the editor was one of these, and,
gravitating naturally to his like, found himself after a time in one of
the bands of discontents who were ready for any trivial mischief that
might come handy. But as yet, even these had no objective.
And so, after all, Jack Raymond had time for a late dinner. And he ate
a good one too, in ignorance--like every one else except a few of the
would-be train-wreckers who discreetly held their tongues--of the real
history of the drawbridge. For the steam fog had effectually hidden all
the heroism of that struggle for it. Had hidden all things save the
voices in the fog; save that almost incredible chanting of a sailor's
chorus heard by the engine-driver, those few words, 'Keep your head,
sir, and take a holt of me,' half-heard by some of the officers.
And Sir George Arbuthnot, too, ate his dinner at the club. He did not
make so good a one, however; and when he had finished it, hurriedly, he
paused beside the table where Jack Raymond was finishing his,
leisurely, to say with rather elaborate point, 'So you were right after
all, Mr. Raymond!--and--and I was wrong--should, I expect, have been
still more wrong, if Kenyon here had not insisted on telegraphing to
Fareedabad.' He looked as he spoke at the Commissioner, who had come in
for a mere bite and sup.
Jack Raymond rose, feeling that he liked the man better than he had
ever done before; feeling for the first time that he was glad he had
helped.
'I don't know, sir,' he said cheerfully, 'about the right and the
wrong. I happened to hear. But it was uncommonly lucky the troops
managed to nick the up-mail, or they might have been a bit late. It
must have been a near shave!'
'Very!' put in the Commissioner with a slightly puzzled frown. 'I don't
know exactly how the deuce they did it, but that's a detail for the
present. Now, sir, if you will write that note to relieve Lady
Arbuthnot's anxiety, we can start back to the hospital--though really
there is no necessity for it--the danger is over.'
Jack Raymond shook his head. 'Not till daylight--it never is. I don't
mean for the hospital. If nothing happens at midnight, nothing will;
but there are lots of other games--at least I should fancy so,' he
added as he sat down again, resuming his dinner and his indifference.
'That is one of the most able men in India!' remarked the Commissioner
to Sir George; 'it is a thousand pities he allowed----'
And then, hurriedly, he changed the subject. It would have been less
significant if he had not done so, and Sir George felt inclined to ask
him to finish the sentence. But even that defiance would have been
significant in its turn, so he gave in resignedly to the awkwardness of
the situation--for he could not help feeling it was awkward--and sat
down to write his note to Grace before returning to the city.
She had been hoping for some message all the evening, and Lesley
realised how great a strain the waiting for news had been on Lady
Arbuthnot's nerves when she saw the sudden relief the note brought with
it.
Till then the Sunday dinner-party had been unusually dull. Now, just as
people were beginning to wonder if they had not ordered their carriage
to come a trifle late, a new life seemed to spring up. The hostess
herself started music by going to the piano, and as she did so, she
found time for a whisper to Lesley--'It's all right! The troops caught
the up-mail and came back in it--sharp work, wasn't it? and George says
everything is settling down, but I am not to expect him home till one
or two. Oh! I feel so happy!'
She looked it, and--good singer as she was--she sang as few had ever
heard her sing. Lesley for one, who listened to the quaint little
French _chansons_, half-laughter half-tears, and the pretty,
comic-opera trills and runs with a new perception of the woman who sang
them--the woman who was, as a rule, so unlike most of her sex in her
calm intelligence.
And now? Now every man in the room was crowding round the piano. She
was holding them there by something that was not beauty or
intelligence, not by her looks or her singing, but by the woman's
desire to have and hold the admiration of her world by making it depend
on her for pleasure--the desire which made Eve share her apple with
Adam!
Yes! that was it! The woman's desire to have and to hold for herself
alone.
But while the dinner-party at Government House had taken a fresh
lease of life under Grace Arbuthnot's guidance, there was another
dinner-party going on in Nushapore, where the good wine of high spirits
had come first and the ditch-water of dulness last. This was at Mr.
Lucanaster's; and it had been the probability of being late for this--a
supreme effort on his part towards something preeminently jolly--which
had made him sulky at being delayed by the 'memorable occasion.' For,
to begin with, more time would be required for dressing than usual,
since the party was to be a _réchauffé_ of the Mutiny Lancers. It was
to be a Mutiny dinner; and for the first time Mrs. Chris had consented
to act as hostess and sit at the top of Mr. Lucanaster's table; Mrs.
Chris in that bewildering costume of pink roses and white shoulders.
And everything had been perfect. The dinner worthy of a _chef_, the
champagne iced enough to cool the tongue, not enough to lessen its
sparkle. And yet, at eleven o'clock, the guests were beginning to
leave. At half-past, Mrs. Chris--there was no mistake in her costume
either--was eyeing Mr. Lucanaster with the amused superiority to the
trivialities of sentiment or passion which--as she had always told poor
Chris--made her absolutely capable of taking care of herself in any
situation.
'No, thanks! I don't want another cigarette, and I'd rather not have a
cherry-brandy before I go back; but you can tell the bearer to tell my
_ayah_ to bring my cloak and overshoes in here. I told her to come and
wait.'
Mr. Lucanaster swore under his breath.
'Oh! I don't think it was quite so bad as that,' she continued
cheerfully, ignoring the palpable cause of his annoyance. 'It really
was quite jolly at first, and nothing could have been better done. It
was that little fool Jones with his cock-and-bull story of a row in the
city; and then the dresses, you know, made one a bit shivery, thinking
of the Mutiny. It did--even me--and I'm not that sort. But you couldn't
help that, you know--your part of it was perfect.'
He looked at her grimly, his determination not to be played with in
this fashion growing.
'Not quite!' he answered. 'There was yet one thing lacking; one thing
that I had meant to have secured--only I could not--you were so late in
coming.'
'I?' she asked curiously. 'Was it something to do with me, then?'
'With the perfection of your dress--it needs something!'
She coloured up pink as her roses, and gave a hurried glance at a
mirror opposite. 'I do not see it,' she said angrily.
'Yes, you do!' he persisted, looking in the mirror also. 'There is
something wanted _here_.' He pointed to her white throat, and in the
mirror his hand pointed to it also.
'Ah'h,' she sighed thoughtfully.--'Yes! pearls--but I had no real ones.
And--and I can stand paste--but somehow sham pearls----!'
'No! not pearls! No! never! Not milk-and-water pearls!' he protested.
'Not with roses there'--he pointed to the glistening shoulders--'and
roses there'--the hand in the mirror seemed almost to touch the
glistening hair.--'It should be roses here. And--and I had some pink
topazes--a bagatelle--you might have bought them from me if you would
not take them as a gift. Bah! a trifle!--just drops of pink dew hanging
from a fine gold chain----'
Her hard blue eyes grew covetous; she drew in her breath. 'Drops of
pink dew hanging from a fine gold chain!--How--how perfectly delicious!
And cheap too--oh! do let me see them.'
'Why not, madame? Are they not in my office room; but'--he looked at
her and laughed--'will you not smoke _one_ cigarette while you inspect
them?'
She looked at him sharply in her turn, then laughed too. He had been
clever! She rather admired him for it; though, if he thought he had
gained any advantage, he was mistaken.
'Why not, monsieur?' she answered, coolly helping herself from the box.
'As I have to see the topazes, I may as well smoke while you are
fetching them.'
She threw herself into an arm-chair and nodded at him. But when the
pink topazes came, as they did come to her, after a minute or two, she
stood up again in the intensity of her admiration. There were other
jewels in the quaint little Indian casket which, with an ill grace, he
had brought back with him from the office;--among them a string of
remarkably fine pearls--but she never even looked at them. The topaz
dewdrops absorbed her. He had been right! They were the one thing
wanting.
The only question that remained was, briefly, how much she could afford
to give for them.
As she stood calculating, as only women of her type can calculate, Mr.
Lucanaster watched her with an easy smile, thinking what a curious hold
little stones--which to him only meant so much money--had upon
humanity. There was a ruby, for instance, in that very casket, which
had taken him three years to wile away from a minor member of the Royal
Family. Then there was the emerald----
A sudden sound of distant voices echoed through the stillness of the
night, and Mrs. Chris looked up from the pink dew, startled.
'I wonder what that is?' she said, pausing. 'I wish that man Jones
hadn't told his foolish tales. He has made me nervous, quite nervous.'
Mr. Lucanaster moved a step nearer. 'You needn't be afraid with me,
Jenny,' he said, attempting sentiment, 'even if there was----'
He got no further, for the figure of a very old native, withered, bent,
dressed (or undressed) in the nondescript garb of a scullion, showed at
the door, then advanced with furtive haste and equally furtive
importance.
'_Khodawund!_' it said toothlessly and with joined hands. 'It is about
to come again. This slave saw it then--in '57. He was _khânsâman_ then
to Ricketts-_sahib bahadur_, who was killed----'
'Curse you!' shouted Mr. Lucanaster, 'what the devil----? Then, as the
simplest way of getting at the truth, he ran into the verandah. Every
servant had disappeared; but there was no mistaking the sound that came
clearer now--it was the sound of a crowd, an angry crowd! He stood
irresolute for a moment, and then, along the road that lay between his
house and Chris Davenant s, he saw two men running with torches.
'There is thatch to both,' called one. 'We will take _his_ first--he
who spoilt our plan. The others will settle the depraver of Kings'
Houses!'
That was enough! He was back in the house in a second, but not in the
drawing-room. In his office, at the safe which he had left open!
Meanwhile Viva, alone with the furtive haste and furtive importance
which had seen it all before, stood paralysed with terror; stood in
that dress of the year of grace 1857, feeling as if that past had
claimed her.
But it _had_ claimed the old anatomy who had returned, in his old age,
to the first rung of the ladder whence he had climbed to that dignity
of '_khânsâman_ to Ricketts-_sahib bahadur_ who was killed.'
They had come back to him, those days of livery and gold lace when he
had served a lady, dressed perhaps in pink tarlatan! They had come
back, and the furtiveness left the remnant that remained of that
dignity; the importance returned. 'But the _mem_ was not killed,
_Huzoor_! How should it be so when Mohubbut Khân was there? Quick!
follow me, _Huzoor_! This slave knows where safety lies! Has he not
seen it all before? Quick, _Huzoor_, quick! The _mem-sahiba_ is
safe--quite safe if she follows Mohubbut Khân.'
Safe, quite safe! Those words were enough for this woman in her pink
tarlatan, whose nerves, such as they were, had been juggled with by
that same pink tarlatan! She forgot everything else, even the pink
dewdrops!
The next instant she was out--as many a _mem-sahiba_ had been out in
that fateful May-time more than forty years before--with no guide to
safety but a native servant. And this was no servant of hers, bound to
her by the slender tie--slender in the West, at any rate!--of personal
service. Mohubbut Khân was only servant of that past--the past which
had brought him nothing for his old age save a return to the greasy
swab and miserable pittance of his apprenticeship to service!
Yet as, with a breathlessness that had not been in that midnight flight
of forty years ago, he headed straight as a die for the Garden Mound,
he prattled cheerfully of the future as he might have done then.
Let the _mem-sahiba_ stay herself on the Merciful and Clement,
including, of course, His servant Mohubbut! As for the master, the
_âkâ-sahib_, who, perforce, had to think of more than mere safety, the
Merciful and Clement had him in his keeping also. And though Mohubbut
could not, unfortunately, be in two places at once, some other slave
would doubtless be raised up!
There was no fear; none! Was not Jân-Ali-shân-_sahib_--he pointed into
the night--there to be reckoned with still? And had it been possible
during that nine long months for any black face--even Mohubbut's, which
had remained outside after he had put the _mem_ inside--to win in to
the Garden Mound?
So, hovering between past and present, the old man who had been
'_khânsâman_ to Ricketts-_sahib bahadur_ who was killed,' chattered of
safety----
Until the Garden Mound was reached, and then----
Then he stood in the dim moonlight--helpless--bewildered--importance
gone! For where was safety, where was Jân-Ali-shân?
Ruins, and flowers! Only one thing as it had been forty years before.
The English flag!
He headed straight for it comforted, the importance returning. 'The
_mem-sahiba_ need have no fear,' he muttered glibly; 'was not Mohubbut
_khânsâman_ to Ricketts-_sahib bahadur_ who was killed?--but the _mem_
was not. Ah! no!'
Yet, once more, the wide ruined doorways of the Residency upset the
unstable balance of the half-crazy old man's confidence. But only for a
moment. The next, he had lost even importance in quick decision, as the
sound of running footsteps, of men's voices, rose against the
background of faint elusive cries and distant disturbance which had
been with them, fitfully, in their flight.
'Quick, _Huzoor_, quick! they come! Have no fear! The _mem_ was never
killed! yet they came before!'
And Viva, tarlatan in ribbons, almost fainting with fear, followed
blindly; then sank behind a heap of stones that lay--part of a ruined
stair--in the lowest story of the turret.
Only just in time; for the voices were close at hand, the steps upon
the outside stair that led to the roof.
'Lo! we can do so much, if naught else,' came savagely: 'we can end
their boast, brothers!' The voice was an educated one, and there was
some answering laughs, as five or six white figures passed upwards.
'Have no fear, _mem-sahiba_!' whispered the toothless comforter.
'Jân-Ali-shân will settle _them_.'
Apparently he did; or some one else carrying on the tradition of the
dead man who lay in the Hollow of Heroes; for almost ere the last
climber could have reached the top, they were down the narrow stairs
again helter-skelter.
'Trra!' said one vexedly. 'To think they should not have forgotten
that! Truly, it is ill doing aught against them, and they so wise! Let
us go back to the city--there be plenty of fools there.'
'Said I not so?' whispered the toothless comforter triumphantly, as the
steps died away. 'He hath sent them forth discomfited. It was even so
before, when Mohubbut was _khânsâman_ to Ricketts-_sahib_ who was
killed--but the _mem_, was not.'
Mrs. Chris, however, was past comfort. Had they come back again she
would not have stirred; and she sat in the darkness behind the heap of
stones, shuddering and sobbing, too terrified even to hear that
monotonous refrain--'Have no fear! Have no fear!'
They are idle words when the heart is full of forebodings. Grace
Arbuthnot was finding them so but a few hundred yards away, though she
stood calmly saying them to herself.
'There can be no fear!' she said. 'Why should they do him an injury?'
'Why, indeed?' echoed Sir George with an inward groan, born of wider
experience of what men can do in such times as these; 'but what _can_
have become of the child?'
He had returned home but a few moments before--and far later than he
had anticipated, owing to a raid which had been made on Chris
Davenant's and Mr. Lucanaster's bungalows, which had ended in the
burning of both--to find the whole household distracted.
For Jerry had disappeared; he was not to be found anywhere, neither was
his Mohammedan _chuprassi_, nor his Hindoo bearer; both men who
worshipped the child, who would to all appearance have given their
lives for him.
For an instant Sir George's face had cleared at this information; but
it had clouded again at the utter incomprehensibility of the whole
affair. Lesley had put the child to bed before she had gone out on her
cycle. He had then been quite happy, and was to play with his soldiers
on 'The Land of Counterpane' till he felt sleepy. That was the last
that had been seen of him. Needham, the maid, who worked in the next
room, had heard no disturbance. She had been in and out of other rooms,
naturally, but not for long. Grace had given a look in about eight
o'clock, had seen the nightlight burning as usual--a little dimmer,
perhaps--and, Jerry not having called to her, she had not risked
disturbing him. Then had come the dinner-party. People had stayed late;
and after they had gone she and Lesley had sat up talking, expecting
every instant to hear Sir George return;--growing a little anxious as
time went on, until, about half an hour ago, Captain Lloyd--who had
gone off after the guests had left to see what news he could pick
up--had come back with such good accounts, that Grace had sent Lesley
to her bed.
Then, not till then, the child's absence was discovered. How long he
had been absent, none could tell, for the only two servants likely to
know, the two who never left him day or night, were gone also.
They had hunted everywhere: Nevill Lloyd had run back to the club to
give the alarm to the men he had left there a few minutes before, Grace
had made every inquiry of the other servants; but, she suggested,
perhaps a man accustomed to cross-examining native witnesses might get
at some clue--'There is nothing else to be done for the moment,'
assented Sir George briefly. 'You had better leave me to do it,
Grace--if you are here, they will be remembering what they said
_to you_.'
So Lesley and Grace--the latter still repeating those words: 'There can
be no fear! Who would hurt the child? Why should they choose him, of
all others?'--went and waited in the verandah overlooking the Garden
Mound, for the first hint of Nevill Lloyd's return. And yet, while
Grace said the words, she was conscious that there might be a reason.
If some one wanted to force their hand about that unlucky letter--the
letter that now meant the worst, since the troops _had_ been sent for,
the promise of no coercion broken at the very beginning; unavoidably of
course, yet none the less disastrously, if that letter became public
property.
And Lesley's mind, also, was not without its sting of remorse added to
its anxiety, as she stood in the fast-lightening dawn looking out into
the dim shadows for hint or sign. Ought she to have told Grace why her
cycle ride had been so long? Yet _that_ made no difference to _this_,
and a knowledge of the truth would only take from Grace a belief that
had made her glad.
No! she could not tell her now! She would wait till Jerry returned--if
he did return!
Oh! what could have become of the child?
'Jerry! Jerry!' she called almost involuntarily, and with the cry came
back a memory of that midnight chase after the boy.
And with that, came the thought of Jack Raymond and his warning--'He
takes it too hard, dear little chap.' She laid her hand quickly on
Grace Arbuthnot's wrist. 'I believe I know!' she said, starting to run.
'Come! Let us find Budlu first.'
But she was too late; as they rounded the carriage-drive, and saw on
the grey sky of dawn above the blossoming trees the flagstaff with its
drooping flag ready to welcome the sun as ever, there was a sound of
voices, of laughter, from the ruins. And the next moment Nevill Lloyd,
catching sight of them, was tearing across the lawns to meet them,
shouting as he ran--
'It's all right, Lady Arbuthnot! Raymond ran the little beggar to earth
in five minutes. He was up on the top of the tower with his
_chuprassi_, his bearer, and Budlu the caretaker, and the young imp had
got my whole sporting-magazine too! By Jove! if I'd only known _that_,
I might have guessed--but Raymond did----
Grace, who had pulled up, felt the relief almost worse than the
suspense; yet she kept calm.
'Lesley!' she said, 'run back and tell Sir George.'
'Let me!' cried Nevill Lloyd. 'Or stay! I'd better go and stop the
search-parties.'
So, with light hearts and feet, they left Grace alone to meet the
little procession that was coming across the dim lawns. Rather a
crestfallen little procession--Jerry, full of yawns and but half awake,
led by Jack Raymond, and followed by guilty figures carrying the
sporting magazine.
'He is very sorry to have made you so anxious,' said Jack Raymond,
grave with difficulty, 'but I have promised you won't scold him,
because he meant well. He thought it was a mutiny, and he went to guard
the flag.'
'And I did guard it!' put in Jerry aggrievedly, 'afore I went to sleep.
For they comed to pull it down--didn't they?' He turned sharply to his
henchmen.
'_Huzoor!_' they assented eagerly, seeing extenuation in the plea,
'without doubt they came.'
'They may have!' said Jack Raymond aside, 'I haven't had time to find
out yet. He was asleep when I came, with the key of the door in his
hand; and they were positively afraid to take it from him till I
insisted!'
'He is more than half-asleep now, poor child,' replied Grace in the
same tone, struggling with her desire to laugh, and cry, and hug Jerry
all at once. 'Bearer, you had better take the _chota-sahib_ back to his
bed, and I will inquire about the rest by and by. Good-night, Jerry! or
rather good-morning! You gave poor mum such a fright!'
'I'm solly,' murmured Jerry sleepily, shrinking as ever from the
passionate caress she could not help giving, 'but they weally did
come--didn't they?'
'_Huzoor!_ without doubt they came!' echoed the trio forlornly.
'And I wouldn't be hard on them either,' said Jack Raymond, as the
disconsolate little group moved homewards. 'I fancy they must have had
some inkling of the city business, and then, when he started this game,
they were in two minds if he wasn't right. You were all away, you see.
And Master Jerry was completely master of the situation, I can tell
you. He must have been thinking about it for some time, for he had
provisions--chocolate caramels, and heaven knows what!--stored in the
crevices--dear little chap! And that reminds me'--he paused with a
laugh, and drew an official envelope sealed with a red seal out of his
pocket--'here's his "Secret Despatches." They fell out of Lloyd's
cartridge-case he was wearing, as he came down-stairs--he was so dead
sleepy he could hardly stand--and I promised to hand them over to you.
He has had them, he told me, these two months! and they are most
important.'
Grace Arbuthnot took the envelope, gave a glance at it, a cry, certain,
yet incredulous--
'It is my letter--_the_ letter--how could he have found it!'
There was a pause as those two stood, in the dawn of another day, with
that immemorial past about them, looking at each other almost
doubtfully.
'There are more things in heaven and earth,' said the man at last. 'And
so Jerry really has--hullo, what's up now? What do _you_ want?'
'_Khodawund!_' replied the furtive importance, which was all that
remained of the '_khânsâman_ to Ricketts-_sahib bahadur_ who was
killed,' as it salaamed low to the masters. 'There is a _mem_ yonder in
the Residency, whom I, Mohubbut, brought thither as I brought the
other, into the keeping of Jân-Ali-shân. And he hath kept her! Yea!
during the night when the evildoers came, he kept her safe as he did of
old. But now it is dawn, and though I tell the _mem_ it is safety, she
listens not; but if the _Huzoors_ come, she will believe.'
'During the night!' commented Jack Raymond swiftly, as, scarcely able
to believe their ears, those two followed the old man's lead. 'Then it
is true--Jerry has--has kept the flag!'