"Shut up!" said Smith impatiently. "Find me a driver to take me to Jenkinson sahib."
"Certainly, your honor," said the man, becoming deferential at once.
One of the bystanders, seeing the chance of earning a few pice, volunteered to drive.
"Jenkinson sahib? all right, sahib; down by Custom House. You bet!"
The carriage rolled off, followed by a crowd of runners, eager out of pure inquisitiveness to see the matter through. They passed Government House, turned into dusty Macleod Road, and in five or six minutes reached the Custom House, where, turning to the left for a short distance along the Napier Mole, the driver pulled up at a wooden godown, and said—
"Here we are again, sahib. Jenkinson sahib, all right."
Smith ordered the man to wait for him, and went into the godown. Here he met with a disappointment. In answer to his inquiry the native clerk, looking at him curiously, said that Mr. Jenkinson was not there, was not even in Karachi.
At this Smith looked blank.
"Your name, sir, is Lieutenant Smith?" said the clerk politely, but with an air of doubt.
"It is."