Events of a Day
he swung around on his remaining visitor, gnawing at his white mustache.
"Monsey!" His full voice rang out sharply. "Where was your friend Abbas Abad last night?"
The Russian stared, and the skin of his face darkened.
"Abbas Abad? The Alaman drug seller of the bazaar? Why do you call him my friend?"
"On the testimony of Rawul Singh."
"Really?" A hard smile crept across Monsey's thin lips. "I fancy your orderly was mistaken." To himself he muttered: "Les absents ont toujours tort!"
"Was Abbas at the palace last night?"
"Dear Major, where was your watchdog? I do not follow the nightly prowling of the scum of the bazaar."
The British officer paced the narrow confines of his quarters, glaring at the more nimble-witted man, much as a caged lion glares at its keeper.
"I think you do, sometimes," he admitted frankly, "when there's a chance of money in pocket"
Monsey's hand twitched toward his coat and his smile was wiped out on the instant. But he had broken the gentleman's code so often that he could well afford to overlook one other insult. Besides, he realized that he held the whip hand. Fraser-Carnie was helpless to accuse him of any wrongdoing. Nor could any blame be affixed to Abbas. So he smiled, although his eyes blinked.
"Each to his taste, my dear chap. You Englishmen have a saying—'Trade follows the flag.' Voilà!" He lowered his voice earnestly. "Fraser-Carnie, you cannot afford to offend me. Have a care what you say. Remember this: I did not kill your orderly nor did I abduct Miss Rand. But, through this man Abbas I be-
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