“Well—I’ll—be——hanged! Surely—they—can’t—be real.”
He inserted a hand and drew forth a kind of crown set with a magnificent emerald, a necklace of fine pearls, rings and other ornaments ablaze with jewels. Lambert sank back on the edge of his string bed and waved his hand toward the glittering pile in bewilderment.
“They couldn’t possibly have belonged to that girl, the daughter of a hundred-rupees-a—month mullah. Then—who—what—where ?—”
He turned his face toward the window. Far down on the eastern sky the gray of early dawn was flushed a faint rose pink. A breath of cool air played upon his cheek. Presently the voice of the mullah rose to remind the Faithful that in the sum total of things prayer is more accountable than sleep.
“Too tired to think it out now,” he murmured. “Must wait till morning. Hope to goodness, though, that girl won’t get into trouble. If she does shall have to try and help her out——somehow. That embrace wasn’t intended for me, I guess, but anyway I got it.”
He rose, collected the jewels in the bowl, and locked them up in his trunk. Then he flung himself on his bed. Exhausted with fatigue and the strain on his nerves he was soon oblivious to the awakening earth.
When Lambert returned to consciousness Firoz Khan was standing by the bed. Lambert started up as he noticed that Firoz Khan was wearing his hereditary blade.
“It is to warn the Huzoor,” said Firoz Khan, “that I have trespassed. To-day many things will happen.”
“Then something has happened?” questioned Lambert, with quick perception.
