“No. Not he. Mr Ramo said that master was twice over married to great Indian princesses, abroad. I s’pose they left him all their money. Oh, here is Mr Ramo!”
The door had opened, and a tall, thin old Hindoo, with piercing dark eyes and wrinkled brown face, came softly in. He was dressed in a long, dark, red silken cassock, that seemed as if woven in one piece, and fitted his spare form rather closely from neck to heel; a white cloth girdle was tied round his waist, and for sole ornament there were a couple of plain gold rings in his ears.
As he entered he raised his thin, largely-veined brown hands to his closely-cropped head, half making the native salaam, and then, said in good English:
“Mr Preenham not here?”
“He’ll be back directly, Mr Ramo,” said the cook. “There, there, do sit down, you look worn out.”
The Hindoo shook his head and walked to the window, which looked out into an inner area.
At that moment the butler entered, and the Hindoo turned to him quickly, and laid his hand upon his arm.
“There, there, don’t fret about it, Mr Ramo,” said the butler. “It’s what we must all come to—some day.”
“Yes, but this, this,” said the Hindoo, in a low, excited voice. “Is—is it right?”
The butler was silent for a few moments.