A few moments later the door opened again and Koda Bux came in, looked at Sir Reginald for a few moments straight in the eyes, and then salaamed with subtle oriental humility.
"May my face be bright in your eyes, protector of the poor and husband of the widow!" he said, as he raised himself erect again. "I have brought a message from my master."
"Well, Koda Bux," said Sir Reginald, a trifle uneasily, for he didn't quite like the extreme gravity with which the Pathan spoke.
"I suppose it must be something important and confidential, if he has sent you here instead of writing or telegraphing. Of course, you have a letter from him?"
"No, Sahib," replied Koda Bux, fingering at a blue silk handkerchief that was tucked into his waist-band. "The message was of too great importance to be trusted to a letter which might be lost, and so my master trusted it to the soul of his servant."
"That's rather a strange way for one gentleman to send a message to another in this country and in these days, Koda Bux," said Sir Reginald, getting up from his chair at the writing-table and moving towards the bell.
Instantly, with a swift sinuous movement, Koda Bux had passed before the fireplace and put himself between Sir Reginald and the bell.
"The Sahib will not call his servants until he has heard the message," he said, not in the cringing tone of the servant, but in the straight-spoken words of the soldier. Meanwhile, the fingers of his left hand were almost imperceptibly drawing the blue handkerchief out of his girdle.
Sir Reginald saw this, and a sudden fear streamed into his soul. His own Indian experience told him that this man might be a Thug, and that if so, a little roll of blue silk would be a swifter, deadlier, and more untraceable weapon than knife or poison, and his thoughts went back to the 28th of June, twenty-two years before.