“Oh, I’ll go with you!” cried the latter. “Where do you mean to go first—to the Inche Maida’s district?”
“No,” cried the doctor; “what is the good of going there? You know she has had the place well searched, and turned sulky, and holds aloof from us now.”
“Yes,” said Chumbley, exchanging glances with Hilton, “I know that. Of course she is annoyed about Murad.”
“Of course,” said Hilton frankly, “she does not like being suspected of connivance with the Rajah for one thing, and feels as well that at such a time as this her presence would be out of place and awkward.”
“It is a pity too,” said the Resident, “for I would rather be on good terms with so enlightened a woman.”
“Sore place,” said the doctor, in his quick, offhand way; “give it time and keep it healthy, and it will soon heal up. The Inche Maida fancies we are suspicious of her. Wait a bit, and send her a little present, and then an invitation. I would not be in too great a hurry. Wait till the Murad business has all settled down, and she has seen that we are not going to usurp her land.”
“Yes,” said Hilton; “I think the doctor is right.”
“Sure I am,” said the doctor. “Diagnosed the case. Bless your hearts, before long her serene highness will have the vapours, or cut her finger, or chew too much betel, or something or another, and then she will send for yours truly, Henry Bolter, and all will be plain sailing again. Well, Chumbley, will you come with me?”
“Yes, doctor, on two conditions,” replied Chumbley.
“Firstly?” said the doctor.