A syce, holding a lady's saddle-horse, waited at the bottom of the verandah steps. He stared stolidly at the intruder. He did not know her, and he knew everyone in Gaya. He had also the unerring instinct of his race and class which discounted the superficial Europeanism of her dress and its common gaudiness. He knew her for what she was, and made a gesture of detention as she passed.
"What you want, missy?" he asked in English, and with a mocking flash of his white teeth. "Missy not go in there."
She turned her head. The expression on her dark, mobile features was composite of dignity and nervousness.
"I want Barclay Sahib," she said. "Is he here?"
"Meester Barclay gone away," the man retorted, using the English prefix deliberately. "Meester Barclay gone away many weeks."
"Where has he gone?"
"Not know, missy."
She stood irresolute, looking at the saddled horse. At first it seemed to convey no significance to her. Then suddenly she flushed up.
"I must see some one who does know," she explained. "Who lives here?"
"The Mem-Sahib, missy."