revolver. He was a ruddy Irishman with a booming voice and seemed to regard the shooting as a pleasant diversion during an otherwise dull evening.
"Well, well," he greeted Dudley, who seemed to be the only conscious, sensible person in the house, "a little shooting-match? Is the dark lad dead?"
"No. I don't think he's fatally hit. The wound is too low." The doctor, who had bared the Hindu's body in the region of the wound, finished his rapid examination. "I wouldn't be too sure," he broke in cheerfully. "It has missed the heart but it's in a vital spot. He is in a very grave condition."
Dhinn, despatched by the doctor, appeared with a tall glass of whiskey and the physician forced it down Rao-Singh's throat, then, taking the material from his medicine kit, began cauterizing the wound.
Officer Joseph Delaney was all attention. The majesty of the law demanded that he find the Hindu's assailant at once before the trail was cold. But he was anxious, if possible, to be present when Rao-Singh regained consciousness, if ever. A statement from his lips would simplify his task considerably. That was his first duty. The officer therefore pounced upon the wounded man as soon as the whiskey took effect and Rao-Singh's eyes be-
