"No," said Sara, "but the suffering is just as bad for the others. It killed my papa."
The Indian Gentleman pushed aside some of the gorgeous wraps that covered him.
"Come a little nearer, and let me look at you," he said.
His voice sounded very strange; it had a more nervous and excited tone than before. Sara had an odd fancy that he was half afraid to look at her. She came and stood nearer, the monkey clinging to her and watching his master anxiously over his shoulder.
The Indian Gentleman's hollow, restless eyes fixed themselves on her.
"Yes," he said at last. "Yes; I can see it. Tell me your father's name."
"His name was Ralph Crewe," said Sara. "Captain Crewe. Perhaps,"—a sudden thought flashing upon her,—"perhaps you may have heard of him? He died in India."
The Indian Gentleman sank back upon his pillows. He looked very weak, and seemed out of breath.
"Yes," he said, "I knew him. I was his friend. I meant no harm. If he had only lived he would have known. It turned out well after all. He was a fine young fellow. I was fond of him. I will make it right. Call—call the man."
Sara thought he was going to die. But there was no need to call the Lascar. He must have been waiting at the door. He was in the room and by his master's side in an instant. He seemed to know what to do. He lifted the drooping head, and gave the invalid something in a small glass. The Indian Gentleman lay panting for a few minutes, and then he spoke in an exhausted but eager voice, addressing the Lascar in Hindustani: