Tiddu looked round furtively. The other shadow, Jhungi or Bhungi, or both, perhaps--the memory made Jim Douglas smile--had melted away into the darkness. He and Tiddu were alone. The old man, even so, reached up to whisper.
"'Tis the yellow fakir, Huzoor! He has come."
"The yellow fakir!" echoed his hearer; "who the devil is he? And why shouldn't he come, if he likes?"
Tiddu paused, as if in sheer amaze, for a second. "The Huzoor has not heard of the yellow fakir? The dumb fakir who brings the speech that brings more than speech. Wâh!"
"Speech that is more than speech," echoed Jim Douglas angrily, then paused in his turn; the phrase reminded him, vaguely, of his past thoughts.
Tiddu's hand went out to the Belooch's rein; his voice lost its creak and took a soft sing-song to which the mare seemed to come round of her own accord.
"Yea! Speech that is more than speech, though he is dumb. Whence he comes none know, not even I, the Many-Faced. But I can see him when he comes, Huzoor! The others, not unless he wills to be seen. I saw him to-night. He passed me on a white horse not half an hour agone, going Meerutward. Did not the Huzoor see him? That is because he has learned from old Tiddu to make others see, but not to see himself. But the old man will teach him this also if he is in Meerut by dawn. If he is there by dawn he will see the yellow fakir who brings the speech that brings more than speech."
The sing-song ceased; the Belooch was stepping briskly back toward Meerut.
"You infernal old humbug!" began Jim Douglas.
"The Huzoor does not believe, of course," remarked Tiddu, in the most matter-of-fact creak. "But Meerut is only eight miles off. His other horse can wait; and if he does not see the yellow fakir there is no need to open the purse-strings."