The young newspaper man to whom Winnie was engaged and the grizzled Ahmed sat on the steps of the bungalow in California one pleasant afternoon. The pipe was cold in the hand of the reporter and Ahmed's cigar was dead, which always happens when one recounts an exciting tale and another listens. Among the flower beds beyond two young women wandered, followed by a young man in pongee, a Panama set carelessly upon his handsome head, his face brown, his build slender but round and muscular.
"And that, Sahib, is the story," sighed Ahmed.
"And Kathlyn gave the treasures to the poor of Allaha? That was fine."
"You have said."
"They should have hanged this Umballa."
"No, Sahib. Death is grateful. It is not a punishment; it is peace. But Durga Ram, called Umballa, will spend the remainder of his days in the treadmill, which is a concrete hell, not abstract."
"Do you think England will ever step in?"
"Perhaps. But so long as Pundita rules justly, so long as her consort abets her, England will not move. Perhaps, if one of them dies.… There! the maids are calling you. And I will go and brew the Colonel Sahib's tea."