were empty of human life Hector was maddeningly conscious of watching eyes and listening ears. He said something of the sort to his guide who smiled.
“This is India, saheb,” he said. “This is an Indian house. Day and night, it is full of eyes and ears.” He stopped. “Look. Listen.”
He pointed at a bull's-eye cut low in an unexpected wall. He coughed loudly. There was a rustle of silken garments, and the noise of bare feet pattering away.
Another time, when directly between his feet Hector heard a sound of deep breathing, the Hindu showed him a tiny peep-hole in the mosaic work which covered the floor.
“A servant's servant,” he whispered, “listening to the gossip of the inner rooms, so as to bring a report to his superior, another report to another superior, still another, until it finally reaches the right ear.”
“Whose?” came the blunt question.
“The ear of the Princess Aziza Nurmahal, ruler of Tamerlanistan;” and, just as Hector was dim-groping in his memory where he had heard that last word, just as some recess in his brain flashed back the reply that Mr. Preserved Higgins had mentioned it a second before Hector's fist had hit him between the eyes and stretched him unconscious on the London pavement, the Hindu repeated:
“The Princess Aziza Nurmahal, ruler of Tamerlanistan!” with a loud voice, like a herald, drew aside a brocade curtain stiff with embroidery, and motioned the other to enter.
