The Rajah looked at him with his own eyes flashing now, and held up his hand to quell the storm, while the chief Brahmin crept shivering to the door, to stand half behind the Rajah’s guards and cling to the curtains of rich stuff hanging from the arch.
“Let no man dare to raise a sword again in my presence,” cried the Rajah with dignity, and his officer drew back and imitated the action of Dick and Wyatt, who thrust their swords back into the scabbards with a clang. “Mr Darrell, you and your friends came here at my invitation, and I will defend you to the last. But you have made a terrible charge against one of the greatest noblemen of my court, the Ranee’s old and trusted friend.”
“No more terrible charge than has been made against me, sir—an English officer, who could not have committed such a paltry theft.”
“Neither could this noble officer, my mother’s trusted friend.”
“Indeed?” said Dick calmly, as Wyatt stood watching his face. “I tell you, then, sir, that yesterday afternoon I saw him come down the steps beneath the great temple floor, lamp in one hand, bag in the other.”
“What!” cried the Rajah wonderingly.
“And as he stepped hurriedly forward he caught his foot on something, slipped, and let fall the bag he carried. It fell with a peculiar sound, and the jerk he made in trying to save it put out the lamp.”
The Wazir uttered a scornful laugh and looked round, half of those present joining in the laugh, half looking grave.
“This was beneath the temple floor?” said the Rajah.
“Yes, sir: and we were in total darkness.”