“You'll lose your gizzard some day, doing that,” said Dawes grimly. “It gives me the shivers.”
Then, before their startled, horror-struck eyes, the Hindu coolly plunged the glittering blade into his breast, driving it in to the hilt!
“Good Lord!” shouted the two old men.
Ranjab serenely replaced the sword in its scabbard.
“It is not always the knife that finds the heart,” said he, so slowly, so full of meaning, that even the old men grasped the significance of the cryptic remark.
“A feller can be fooled, no matter how closely he watches,” said Mr Dawes, and he was not referring to the amazing sword trick.
“No, sir,” said Mr Riggs, with gloomy irrelevance, “I don't like that woman.”
The old spell of the Orient had fallen upon the ancients. They were hearing the vague whisperings of voices that came from nowhere, as they had heard them years ago in the mystic silences of the East.
“Sh—h! One comes,” said Ranjab softly. “It will be the master's son.”
An instant later his closet door closed noiselessly behind him and the old men were alone, blinking at each other. There was no sound from the hall. They waited, watching the curtained door. At last they heard footsteps on the stairs, quick footsteps of the young.