He stepped from his seat and held out his hand to the Pathan chief. Rahmut grasped it, hesitated a moment, then said in a voice he with difficulty controlled—
"Jan Larrens, I have a thing to say. It is meet I say it. These nine years it has been locked in my heart, but the deeds of Ahmed Khan and thy kindness have proven both as a key. Ahmed Khan is the son of my heart, but not of my body. He is one of yourselves. He is a Feringhi."
And then he told the story of Ahmed from the time he had been snatched from his father's murderers. It was characteristic of the old chief that, even though Minghal Khan was his enemy, he did not disclose the fact that it was he who had murdered Mr. Barclay.
"God bless my soul!" ejaculated the astonished Englishman. "What is the boy's name!"
"Barkelay, if that is the Feringhis' way of saying it."
"By George!" ejaculated Colonel Herbert Edwardes. "I knew George Barclay; so did you, Sir John; in fact, I'm not sure I haven't played ride-a-cock horse with this youngster on my knee. The whirligig of time!—my word, it's a queer world."
Rahmut Khan was submitted to a searching cross-examination. There was no doubt about the matter: Sir John Lawrence was convinced that Ahmed was indeed George Barclay's son. Having made his confession, the old chief found it difficult to control his emotion as he contemplated the loss of the heir upon whom his pride and affection were centred. The officers meanwhile had grouped themselves about Ahmed, and plied him with questions, seeking to revive recollections of his childhood.
"What's his real name, I wonder?" said Captain Daly. "Chief, what did Barclay Sahib call the boy?"
"Jorkins," replied Rahmut.
The officers roared.