As he spoke, a handsome young fellow came swaggering down the latter, on his way evidently to riotous living in the bazaar. Suddenly he paused, his hand went up to his eyes as if the rising sun were in them. Then he stepped across the road and dropped a coin into the beggar's bowl. Tiddu nodded his head gravely.
"That man is wanted, Huzoor. That is why he saw. Mayhap he is to give the word."
"The word?" echoed Jim Douglas. "You said he was dumb?"
"I meant the trooper, Huzoor. The fakir wanted him. To give the word, mayhap. Someone must always give it."
Jim Douglas felt an odd thrill. He had never thought of that before. Someone, of course, must always give the word, the speech which brought more than speech. What would it be? Something soul-stirring, no doubt; for Humanity had a theory that an angel must trouble the waters and so give it a righteous cause for stepping in to heal the evil.
But what a strange knack the old man had of stirring the imagination with ridiculous mystery! He felt vexed with himself for his own thrill, his own thoughts. "He is a very ordinary yogi, I should say," he remarked, looking toward the yellow sunrise, but the figure was gone. He turned to Tiddu again, with real annoyance. "Well! Whoever he is, he cannot want me. And I certainly saw him."
"I willed the Huzoor to see!" replied Tiddu with calm effrontery.
Jim Douglas laughed. The man was certainly a consummate liar; there was never any possibility of catching him out.