“Strange now—that I should be here, isn’t it? I’ve heard my father speak of this place. You know he was out here a lot—years ago—I suppose there isn’t another of the same name, is there?”
“He says, nowhere near this part of the country,” said Upward, rendering Bhallu Khan’s reply. “But what made your father mention this place in particular? Was he in any row here?”
“Perhaps he ‘missed birds’ here, too,” cut in the irrepressible Lily. “I know. It was named after him—not you.”
“That’s it. Of course it was. Now, I never thought of that before,” assented Campian, with a stare of mock amazement. “I believe, however, Upward, that as a matter of fact, he remembered the rather remarkable formation of that tangi behind the camp.”
Then he dropped out of the conversation, and thought over what he had just heard. Truly this thing was becoming interesting. He had located the very place. There could be no mistake about that. He had been on the point of asking if Bhallu Khan had heard the story of the flight of the Durani chief, or of Syyed Aïn Asrâf, but decided to let that alone for the present.
“Who is that bounder, Campian?” Bracebrydge was saying. “Does anyone know?”
“He isn’t a ‘bounder,’” returned Nesta shortly. “He’s awfully nice.”
“Oh, awfully nice—ah—ha—ha—ha!” sneered Bracebrydge, with his vacuous laugh. “Very sorry. Didn’t know he was such a friend of yours.”
“But he is.”
“Pity he goes about looking such a slouch then, isn’t it?”