"He wails and weeps and prays to be suffered to die in his ancestral home."
"He is a tiresome old fool and can no longer till the ground to good profit. All I made last year on that acre and a half of cane was one hundred rupees—he must go."
"It will kill him!"
"Even so!" was the callous reply; "it were time he were dead! And now what of the money belonging to my daughter, Verona? Have you put it out to a good charge?"
"Yes; four thousand rupees," he replied, "to build an oil mill; twenty-five per cent. They cannot pay, so the interest will be compound."
"And the jewels, Abdul. Are there no tidings?"
"No, though Salwey seeks them everywhere."
"True; he wanted to search here, but I said no. He might have found other matters. Yet it is past belief that there is no trace of them. What sayest thou, Abdul?"
Abdul nodded his head three times, but made no other reply.
"I put them in the bag myself. It was not locked, but I locked the press, and the door of the dufta, and some one came in and broke the press at the back and took the necklace, the watch, a gold bangle and rings. Think of it!"