The Englishman, his eyes now accustomed to the gloom, strode over to a thong-strung bed and peered down at the form stretched upon it. Unable to see clearly, he struck a match. The tiny flare flickered upon bare brown skin.... Trent swore.
"Stop that damned nonsense!" he commanded. "Chatterjee, you've had some infernal hakim here again—against my orders!"
"My little Ratanamma, dove of my bosom, is dead!" wailed the man.
"Did you give her the medicine I left?"
"Yes, Dakktar Sahib! It was your medicine that killed her. The hakim said so."
Trent swore again. "I've a notion to report you to the Karnal Sahib and have you taken up! You old murderer! Didn't you know better than to let some filthy, stinking hakim burn her stomach with a hot iron?"
The native was wailing again.
"Listen to me, Chatterjee," said Trent sternly, gripping the man's shoulder. "Who did this?"
"Your medicine, Dakktar Sahib!"
Trent shook him roughly. "Will you answer me—or...."