"He has betrayed me," she exclaimed involuntarily.
"Or died! Take it as thou willst. The letter was sent to its destination anyhow, for it served our purpose. Thou knowest the King's challenge? Well, we have sought all day to get hold of the Feringhi jeweller, so that his death might break the King's safe conduct. But Birbal hath been too quick for us. He hath him safe cooped up in his house. But thou hast called the man here."
Âtma, with a cry, rose to her feet. "I meant but----" she began.
"What thou didst mean matters not now, though I have my suspicions," broke in the Mirza brutally. "Sit down, I tell thee, and listen. Whether thy call be, as I hold it to be, one that even Birbal would admit, time will show. But if this doubly damned infidel be found within the palace precincts it is death. And see here"--he held out a paper.
"I cannot see," she murmured dully. "It is too dark." And in truth, even as she spoke, the palace gong sounded one stroke.
How often it sounded one she thought as the Mirza struck a light. But this time it meant half-an-hour beyond eight. One, yes--it was the knell of doom.
The spark had come to the tinder-roll, and now a sputtering oil lamp in the sevenfold cresset showed her the writing on the paper. "To the Sergeant of the Palace watch. At one of the clock, guard the Preacher's dhooli and enter the apartment of Âtma Devi. Her lover will be there."
"He is not my lover," she began.
"But he will be there at one." He laughed devilishly, "Now listen. None but me know of this--as yet. Âtma," his voice took on urgency, almost appeal, "grant me thyself--and this paper shall be destroyed."
So it had come. She was the price of honour. Would it not be the simplest way?