He held out his hand as he spoke, but the old Indian remained motionless for the moment; then, seizing the hand extended to him, he bent over it, holding it to his breast.
“My dear lord’s old friend,” he said.
“That’s better, Ramo,” said Mr Girtle. “Now, go and change your dress.”
“No, no!” cried the old man. “I must watch.”
“Nonsense, man. Don’t think that every one who comes means to rob.”
“But I do,” cried the old Indian, in a whisper. “They think of what we know—you and I only. Those foreign men—the servants.”
“You must not be so suspicious, Ramo. It will be all right.”
“It will not be all right, Sahib,” cried the old Indian. “Think of what there is in yonder.”
“But we have the secret, Ramo.”
“Yes—yes; but suppose there were others who knew the secret—who had heard of it. Sahib, I will be faithful to the dead.”