She interrupted him eagerly.
'Your slave has been ill; as the Huzoor may perchance notice.' Her wistful tone made George look at her more closely.
'Very ill I should say,' he assented shortly. 'You are not fit to come so far. Why did you? Why didn't you send some one else?'
'I thought the Huzoor would not believe unless he saw me,' she answered after a pause. 'I heard the Huzoor was going away to-day, and I wanted the pot. Surely he will give it back! The protector of the poor has so many things; his slave has but this one thing.'
Her face was outlined against the white pillar beside which she sat, and with all the languor of sickness on it still showed strong in its entreaty. Something in it struck George with regret, even amid the pressing desire to kick somebody which her words had roused in him.
'Give it back,' he echoed savagely. 'Of course I would, if I could; but I can't. It was stolen----'
'It has been found again, Huzoor.'
'Perhaps; but I haven't found it. I'm very sorry, my good girl, but I haven't got it.'
'The Huzoor mistakes. He has it. It is in the parcel that came from the palace. They took it from me again to send it back to the mem.'
George stared at her, unable to believe his ears.