Presently, after an amount of rummaging altogether disproportionate to the nature of his quest, Raikes succeeded in finding a lucifer, which flared with a reluctance characteristic of the surroundings.
The Sepoy, availing himself of its blaze, deposited the remainder of the stick, with elaborate carefulness, upon the table, as if urged by the thought that his companion might convert it to further uses.
As Raikes resumed his chair, the Sepoy, recalling his glances from their mysterious foray, directed them, with curious obliqueness, upon his companion.
In no instance that Raikes could recall had the Sepoy looked upon him directly save in fleeting flashes.
At such moments Raikes was conscious of a strange tremor, a vanishing fascination, that he vainly sought to duplicate by attracting the other’s attention, in order to analyze its peculiar influence.
“May I ask,” he ventured after a few inhalations of his vicarious smoke, “may I ask the nature of your business?”
“Surely,” replied the other. “I am a collector.”
“Of what?” inquired Raikes, dissatisfied with the ambiguity of the answer.
“Sapphires,” said the Sepoy.
“Ah!” cried Raikes.