“Very good,” said Elliott. “Here’s your ten rupees, Israel. Now, get out. I want to have a little private talk with our friend.”
The half-caste scuttled into the outer shop and closed the door.
“Now, then, Hurris, tell me the truth. Where did you steal those oilskins?”
Hurris Chunder made a deprecating gesture. “May the Presence pardon me,” he said, in soft and excellent English. “I did not steal them. My master, Baker Sahib, gave them to me.”
“Baker Sahib, indeed!” Elliott murmured. “Where is your master? What did he look like?”
“He was a tall, lean, strong sahib, and when he first came he had a great gray beard. He lived for many days at the Planters’ Hotel, and I was unworthily his kitmatgar.”
This was another surprise, for the Planters’ was an excellent, quiet, and rather high-priced hotel, and the mate was presumably short of funds.
“He had money, then?”
“He had much money, English money. He was a very generous Sahib.”
“Well, you’ll find me a generous Sahib, too, if you act on the level. Here’s your ten rupees. Baker Sahib is at the Planters’, then?”