For some inexplicable reason Muhafiz Ali felt frightened. The eyes that looked so incisively into his did not match the young face. He had seen the same expression, only more intense, in the eyes of a mad mollah.
"Could you?" pressed the sahib, "or, rather, would you? For an extra gift of thirty rupees?"
Thirty rupees! Muhafiz Ali's commercial instincts led him into planning.... But the Pearl Scarf. Why did he want a copy? The germ of suspicion grew and multiplied.
"Nay, Sahib!" he answered, his better judgment outbalancing the desire for money. "I do not remember how."
"That's a pretty lie," interposed the man, with a laugh—a laugh that carried a cold undercurrent and made Muhafiz Ali shudder, inwardly. "You know the exact number of pearls in the scarf and how they are arranged; nine strands; with eighteen pearls in the neck-piece-clasp, each having a carat diamond inset in it. Come now—I will raise the extra amount to thirty-five rupees."
Thirty-five! The Mussulman's imagination took wings. He saw himself coming into what was to him fabulous wealth.
"The pattern is intricate, Sahib," he said doubtfully.
"I'll risk it." Again that laugh.
Muhafiz Ali felt vaguely nervous. "I will have to think it over, Sahib," he announced.
What did he want with a copy of the Pearl Scarf? That query threaded back and forth across his thoughts.