"O Luchman! Poor Harkins is killed!"
"I thought so, sahib," was the quiet response of the native, who, deeply as he felt the loss, repressed all emotion.
"Who killed him?"
"He," was the reply of Luchman, who kicked the form of his countryman with spiteful venom; "but he will do no more murders. Wana Affghar sent him after me, and the fool knew no better than to kill the Feringhee."
"How was it done?"
"He slipped behind him, when he was walking this way, and thrust his long, thin knife, that is as sharp as a needle, into his heart. He sank down on the floor, killed before he knew what wounded him. Then he set him up with his head leaning against the wall, as though he was asleep. The Ghoojur hurried out to tell Wana Affghar what he had done and that the way was open to the temple, where the rest of the Feringhees were sleeping, but he forgot, sahib, or he never knew that I was on the outside, watching for him and others, though I did not see him when he stole into the archway. I must have been at the rear at the time, but I met him when he was climbing up the stones. I gave him just enough time to know who it was that sent a bullet through his brain, and that was all."
It was a sad consolation to know that the fierce assassin had met his fate before he could get out of sight of the body of his victim, who was worth a legion of such wretches, but he was gone beyond recall.
When Dr. Avery had rallied from the shock, he made a professional examination of his friend's body to find what it was that caused his death.
It proved to be as Luchman had said: the native had evidently slipped up behind Harkins, without noise, at the moment when he was walking away from him, and had slain him so quickly that he had to leap aside to escape the falling body.
"What shall be done?" asked Avery; "can we give him burial?"