"At the end of my narrative Munshi Khyraz—such was my host's name—sat silent for a spell. I knew my friend, and allowed him his own time to make any comment. Presently he broke from his reflections.
"'About the time you mention,' he began, 'just before the first rains, a stranger was brought into this town by some woodcutters. Their story was that the wounded man had been attacked by his servant when travelling, and left for dead in the jungle.'
"I started, and leaned toward him eagerly.
"'A clue!' I cried. 'A clue! Where is he now?'
"The old sage looked at me with disapproval in his eyes.
"'Excitement and impetuosity of speech are for the young, my friend,' he said, gravely. 'They are not becoming in the matured.'
"I lay back again on my cushions, feeling justly censured. The light of displeasure dying from his eyes, the munshi proceeded:
"'I had the victim of this outrage carried to my house, and, his wounds not proving serious, he was soon well, and able to think of resuming his journey. He was very reticent concerning the motive of his servant for attempting his life, and foolishly, to my mind, made no effort to trace the miscreant. When leaving he said that in all probability he would return this way a few weeks later. So, my friend, he may be here any day, for it is a good long while since he left.'
"Repressing my eagerness this time, I sat still for a few minutes, then said:
"'I think it is certain from what you have told me that the wounded man was the one I am now seeking.'