"Turn about!" he ordered softly, in English—excellent English for a street juggler, as Trent did not fail to notice. "Don't say a word; don't make a sound!"
Trent's eyes dropped to the body; lifted questioningly.
Again the snake-charmer grinned—that impudent, strangely reminiscent expression.
"Never mind that now!" he said, and his voice, too, slow and quiet, seemed vaguely familiar. "If you want to get out of this place whole, do as I say!"
Trent turned, facing the window. (And the native did not see the smile that traced itself upon his face.) Instantly the Englishman felt a pressure between his shoulders.
"Now, drop out of the window!" came the whispered command from behind.
Trent moved to the window and pulled the curtain aside. As he swung over the sill he caught a glimpse of the juggler's grinning face. The sash was not more than four feet from the ground, and he discovered that he was behind the joss-house, in the shadow of a lofty wall. Above were stars; at one side, further along the wall, a gateway where the glow from a lighted street fell within.
"Walk to the gate," was the native's quiet order, as he lowered himself from the window. "Hail a carriage and get in. I'll be directly behind you. Don't look around or say a word; if you do...."
Trent obeyed. He moved slowly, almost carelessly, through the gate and into the street, where a thin stream of Burmans and Chinese flowed toward the joss-house.
It was half a square before he saw a cab; then, in a matter-of-fact way, he motioned to the wallah. As the gharry drew up, the slow, familiar voice at his side spoke to the driver—in Burmese, Trent imagined.