“I told you, my boy,” said the Doctor encouragingly, “to speak to me as if I were your father.”
“Yes, sir, I know,” cried Glyn passionately, “and I want to speak out plainly and clearly, but it won’t come.”
“Yes,” said the Doctor gravely; “it will, my boy. Go on to the end.”
“Yes, sir,” cried Glyn. “Well, sir, there has been all this trouble about the belt when it was missed out of Singh’s box.”
The Doctor bowed his head.
“I seem to have been able to think of nothing else, and I couldn’t do my lessons—I could hardly eat my meals—and at night I couldn’t sleep for thinking about the belt and what my father would say about it being lost.”
The Doctor bowed his head again very slowly and solemnly, and fixed his eyes once more upon Glyn’s flushed face.
“You see, sir, my father said so much to me about Singh being as it were in my charge, and told me how he trusted in my example, and in me being ready to give Singh a sensible word whenever he was disposed to do anything not becoming to an English lad.”
“Exactly, my boy,” said the Doctor. “Your father is a worthy trustee of this young ward, and it will be a terrible shock to him when he hears of this—er—er—accident and the loss.”
“Yes, sir, for you see, as he is the old Maharajah’s executor, the royal belt was in his care till Singh is old enough to be his own master; and father will feel that he is to blame for giving way and letting Singh have it so soon.”