had found there, supported by half-a-dozen soldiers and servants, the moaning, blood-covered figure of the chief eunuch.
He had died even as Ayesha Zemzem reached his side; had died, 'with the words on his frothing lips:
“Aziza Nurmahal—the mausoleum—the Afghan—Hajji Akhbar Khan …”
And, with a choked rattling noise in his throat, he had sunk on the ground, one hand flung across his lacerated face as if to ward off Fate.
“Aziza Nurmahal? Hajji Akhbar Khan? The Afghan—what Afghan? What is all this blabbing and gabbing?” the old nurse had demanded, looking down at the dead man as if she wanted to shake the answer from his limp body; and, more gently:
“Who murdered thee, faithful old friend?! Who …”
She had interrupted herself, had turned to the tense, startled crowd of servants and soldiers and courtiers, taking charge of the situation as usual.
“Where is the princess?” she had continued. “Go—somebody—and fetch her. Perhaps she has the key to this pukka devil's mystery!”
It was then that Kumar Zaida, the little slave girl who had joined the group, had decided that she must tell what she knew; and she had told about the rough Afghan charpadar, how he had come with a mysterious message for the princess, how he had whispered to her, how she herself had not been able to understand every word, but, judging from scraps of
