Sarojini rose; Trent, too, got up.
"Salaam, Burra Dakktar," she said, lapsing into Hindustani and bringing the visit to an end. "I, the Swaying Cobra—who dance for those I love, but have only venom for those I hate—bid thee farewell until the gods bring us together again. And may that be soon!"
She smiled and contemplated him, once more as a cat contemplating prey; smiled with eyes that spoke mockery as she suffered him to salute her fingers; and the last picture he had of her was as she crossed the golden room and parted the golden curtains, vanishing like a cobra into its lair.
He turned then to Kerth and shook him. The latter was slow to awaken. Lids lifted to reveal rheumy eyes, but as he recognized Trent sleep was wiped away, like a cobweb. His gaze swept the room; he rose unsteadily.
"I am ready, Sahib!" announced Chandra Lal, appearing in the doorway.
Kerth opened his mouth, as if to speak; shut it; shot Trent a cryptic glance.
"Come." This from Trent, laconically.
Thus they left the house of the Swaying Cobra, left it with its vain, old-world atmosphere and its golden room; re-traversed the labyrinth of streets; got into the landau; whirled toward the Cantonment.
4
Not until they reached the hotel, until Chandra Lal flicked his whip and rolled away into the gloom, did either of the Englishmen speak.