"There be two false stones, sister," he said striving to be calm, feeling that it was his only chance of getting any hint on which he could work from her, "but where is the real one; dost know?"
Her great, wide eyes roved helplessly from the twin stones to the jeweller's face, so back to his; then back again to the stones.
"Pooru must have made them," she said slowly, "but I wist not they were even made."
Then suddenly she threw up her arms and clapped her hands together high above her head. The platter of death offerings with its little lamp falling from her hold, dashed itself to pieces on the stones, and there was darkness. So from it came her wail--"Lo I have betrayed the King, I, his Châran! Yet I know nothing." She sank huddled in a heap upon the ground.
"There is no use wasting further time here," said Birbal roughly after several vain attempts to rouse Âtma Devi from ineffectual despair. "Leave her to her own condemnation. This points to deeper plotting than I dreamt of, and there is no moment to lose."
As he hurried off, he marshalled half a hundred theories before the judgment seat of his brain....
The biggest villain--who was the biggest villain? Khodadâd without doubt, but he was dead. Could he have had the diamond? It was becoming plain to Birbal that in this scheme of theft some one had played for the chance of the Great Diamond never coming again within reach of a jeweller's lathe. Someone had kept the real stone, and played off false ones upon the conspirators. He must search Khodadâd's house; aye even the corpse which still awaited the next dawn for burial. Then there was Siyah Yamin; but that devil's limb had once more disappeared. She would be found, of course--no power, not even fear, could keep a woman of her kidney quiet for long. But this was all in the future, and deep down in the cynical heart of the man lurked a clamour that his King, his master, should have the benefit of his luck stone within the next few hours. It must not be in the keeping of his enemies. It must be secure in the safe custody of a friend.
Yet he felt curiously helpless. Though he had ransacked Fatehpur Sikri, aye and Agra also, in search of the so-called Sufi from Isphahân--the mountebank, the juggler with men's senses, he had not come upon a trace of him. William Leedes was of no use, and the only other human being friendly to the King who knew of the diamond's loss, was the half-crazy woman whom he had left crushed in despairing remorse by the Anup tank. Most likely she would go home and kill herself with the death-dagger of her race.
Well she was of no use. From beginning to end, she had been a hindrance, not a help.
And Âtma, meanwhile, was feeling that the Seven Tides of the Waters of Strife had overwhelmed her.