“Yes—for the love of Heaven! what does this mean? He can’t be a Malay.”
“No,” said Archie excitedly. “It’s impossible to recognise him for certain now, but I feel sure it’s the Rajah’s French friend.”
“What!” said the Major excitedly. “What could he have been doing here?”
“What could he have been doing here, sir, that night when Captain Down and I were startled by hearing some one outside the veranda—some one who must have been listening to you and Sir Charles when you were talking together?”
“Here, I don’t understand,” said the Major petulantly. “What could the Rajah’s friend have been doing here listening to our talk?”
“Playing the spy, sir, in his master’s interest.”
“Pooh!” said the Major angrily. “This is no French friend of the Rajah’s. He’s a Malay. That’s a piece of a silk sarong clinging to his waist, with a kris stuck in it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Archie; “but those are European trousers he’s wearing underneath, and—yes!” cried the lad, as he bent nearer and shrinkingly touched the blackened wrist, just as a fresh flight of flame rose from the ruined magazine—“I am certain that’s the gold bracelet the Rajah’s friend used to wear. It’s got a French motto on it, which you could see if you took it to the light. But I know it by the shape, and I thought that it was a silly bit of effeminate foppishness on the part of a man.”
“Yes,” said Sir Charles; “I remember thinking so too. Why, the scoundrel must have been in the pay of the Rajah, and played the spy here to pretty good purpose. I don’t think you need search for the cause of the magazine being exploded.”
Further conversation was ended by the report of a musket, which served as the signal for several more, all fired from beyond the parade-ground, and doing no harm, though the whiz and phit of the bullets passed close by, and could be heard striking against the nearest buildings.