"And you took up your abode in the serai of Gopal Ali by the Moti Bazar."
"It is so," said Ahmed, wondering more and more.
"And you have sold goods to officers of the regiments of the Prince Mirza Mogul and Minghal Khan."
"All this is true," said Ahmed, feeling strangely uncomfortable; "and yet I know not how it reached your ears."
"That is no matter. It is my business to know things. And now, what can I do for you?"
"I would send a message to Hodson Sahib."
"Well, I have been asked to assist an Afghan trader named Ahmed Khan. That was Rajab Ali's word. I will do all I can. Say on. What is the message?"
"I must say it to a munshi, who will write with a pen what I speak with my lips."
"I will write. Speak."
Then Ahmed began, in the grave and earnest manner of one engaged in an important transaction, to describe what he had seen, and relate what he had heard. For some little while Fazl Hak wrote with the finest of pens, in diminutive characters, on paper so thin that Ahmed marvelled it was not pierced. The maulavi's grave face expressed nothing of what he thought; perhaps one who knew him better might have detected a slight twinkle beneath his veiling eyelids, and the play of his lips behind their curtain of beard. All at once he stopped writing, and looking up at Ahmed, said—