“I think about it all the time. And, by thunder, I'm not the only one who does, either. Jim thinks a good deal, and so does Lydia. It's a darned——”
Mr Riggs happened to look up at that instant. Ranjab was standing in front of him, his arms folded across his breast, in the habitual pose of the Hindu who waits. The man was dressed in the costume of a high-caste Brahmin; the commonplace garments of the Occident had been laid aside, and in their place were the vivid, dazzling colours of Ind, from the bejewelled sandals to the turban which crowned his swarthy brow and gleamed with rubies and sapphires uncounted.
Mr Riggs's mouth remained open as he stared blankly at this ghost of another day. Not since the old days in India had he seen Ranjab in native garb, and even then he was far from being the resplendent creature of to-night, for Ranjab in his home land was a poor man and without distinction.
“Am I awake?” exclaimed Mr Riggs in such an awful voice that Mr Dawes gave over staring at the cabinet and favoured him with an impatient kick on the ankle.
“I guess that'll wake you up if——” and then he saw the Hindu. “The Ranjab!”
Ranjab was smiling, and when he smiled his dark face was a joy to behold. His white teeth gleamed and his sometime unfeeling eyes sparkled with delight. He liked the two old men. They had stood, with Brood, between him and grave peril far back in the old days when even the faintest gleam of hope apparently had been blotted out.
“Behold!” he cried, magnificently spreading his arms. “I am made glorious! See before you the prince of magic! See!”
With a swift, deft movement he snatched the half-smoked cigar from the limp fingers of Mr Riggs and, first holding it before their blinking eyes, tossed it into the air. It disappeared!
“Well, of all the——” began Mr Riggs, sitting up very straight. His eyes were following the rapid actions of the Hindu. Unlocking a drawer in the big table, the latter peered into it and then beckoned the old men to his side. There lay the cigar and beside it a much-needed match.
“I don't want to smoke it,” said Mr Riggs, vigorously declining his property. “The darned thing's bewitched.” Whereupon Ranjab took it out of the drawer and again threw it into the air. Then he calmly reached above his head and plucked a fresh cigar out of space, obsequiously tendering it to the amazed old man, who accepted it with a sheepish grin.