Singh plumped himself down on the carpet like a native of Dour, untroubled by clothes, with his knees nearly to his ears and his crossed hands before him resting on the floor, while his face lost its sympathetic expression and puckered up into one of misery and despair.
“Yes, I had,” he said, with a groan; “all about it. Here,” he cried passionately, “I won’t be treated like a schoolboy! I am a prince and a chief, and the belt was mine. It’s gone, and I won’t be bullied about it by any one.”
“Not even by your guardian, eh?”
“Not even by my guardian,” cried the boy haughtily. “If Colonel Severn says anything to me about it I shall tell him I won’t hear another word, and that he is to go to the best jeweller in London and order another exactly like the one that has been stolen.”
“Of course,” said Glyn solemnly. “It’ll be as easy as kissing your hand, and they’ll know at once how to engrave the emeralds with the old Sanskrit inscription, and make the belt of the same kind of leather, so beautifully soft, dull, and yellow; and there are plenty of people in London who can do that Indian embroidery.”
Singh nodded his head shortly.
“Bah! You jolly old Tom Noodle!” continued Glyn; “why, even if they could get as big emeralds and manage somehow to have the exact words of the inscription cut, would it be the same old belt and stones as came down from the past, and that your father used to wear?”
Singh’s eyes dilated and his lips parted.
“No,” he said with a groan. “Oh, Glynny, what a beast you are! And you call yourself my friend!”
“Never,” cried Glyn. “It was you said I was.”