“If the bold stroke is to expose yourself, I say no. The moment you go out, the man’s bullet will end your career. We must resort to a ruse to try and draw him from his cover.”
“That is a good idea; but what do you propose?”
Some pieces of bamboo were lying in the corner; she secured one of these, and then said—
“Give me your turban.”
He having done as she desired, she wound the muslin round the stick, so as to, in some measure, resemble Gordon’s head.
“Go to the window,” she said, “and fire a shot. This will attract Jewan’s attention to that spot, and while you get back to the door again I will show the turban.”
Gordon saw the plan was a good one. He crept to the window, and fired at Jewan’s tree, then ran back to the door, as Haidee raised the stick.
Bukht peeped cautiously from behind his shelter. He saw what he supposed was Gordon’s head, and, taking deliberate aim, fired. There were two simultaneous reports—two bullets sped past each other. One crashed harmlessly through the mud wall of the cook-house, the other crashed fearfully through the brain of Jewan Bukht, who, without a cry, without a moan, threw up his arms, and fell forward into the tank a corpse. It was a just retribution, and his career of crime was ended.
Gordon could not help drawing a sigh of pity as he saw his old servant fall, and yet he felt that the man’s fate was merited.