"By George, sir, you've got pluck. If it were I, I'd want to sit up all night with a pistol."
"Not you. Otherwise you wouldn't be in the place at all. Besides you are qualifying for delicate little attentions like this." And Dermot flicked the ash of his cigarette into the vase in which the cobra still writhed and twisted.
"Oh, well, they haven't tumbled to me yet," said the young police officer, making light of his own courage. "I suppose you won't make any fuss about this?"
"Of course not. We've got no proof against any one."
"But do you think it wise for you to stay on here, sir? They'll only try again."
Dermot lit a fresh cigarette.
"Well, it can't be helped. It's all in the day's work. I'm due to stay here two days more, and I'm damned if I'm going to move before then. As you know, it doesn't do to show these people the white feather. Besides, I'm rather interested to see what they'll try next."
"You're a cool hand, Major. Well, since you look at it that way, there's nothing more to be said. I see you're ready for bed, so I'll take my lamp and bit of pottery, and trek."
"Oh, just one moment, Barclay." Dermot sank his voice. "Did you notice the Rajah's catch-'em-alive-ohs on sentry?"
"You mean his soldiers? No, I can't say I did."