Beecot nodded. "By Colonel Meadows Taylor. A very interesting book, but rather a bloodthirsty one for you, dearest."
"Debby got it," confessed Miss Norman, "along with some other books from a literary customer who could not pay his bill. It is very strange, Paul, that The Confessions of a Thug should be amongst the books."
"Really I don't see why," smiled Beecot, fingering the old-fashioned volumes.
"It's the finger of Fate, Paul," said Sylvia, solemnly. Then seeing her lover look puzzled, "I mean, that I should find out what goor is?"
"Goor?" Paul looked more puzzled than ever.
"It's an Indian word," explained Sylvia, "and means coarse sugar. The Thugs eat it before they strangle anyone."
"Oh," laughed Beecot, "and you think your father was strangled by a Thug? My dear child, the Thugs were stamped out years ago. You'll read all about it in the preface of that book, if I remember. But it's long since I read the work. Besides, darling," he added, drawing her to him caressingly, "the Thugs never came to England."
"Paul," said Sylvia, still more solemnly and resenting the laugh, "do you remember the Thug that came into the shop—"
"Oh, you mean the street-hawker that Bart spoke of. Yes, I remember that such an Indian entered, according to Bart's tale, and wanted to sell boot-laces, while that young imp, Tray, was dancing on poor Bart's body. But the Indian wasn't a Thug, Sylvia."
"Yes, he was," she exclaimed excitedly. "Hokar, he said he was, and Hokar was a Thug. Remember the handful of coarse brown sugar he left on the counter? Didn't Bart tell you of that?"