"On your word, sahib?"
"On security."
"What manner of security can you offer?"
"A ring—an emerald ring."
Dhola Baksh shrugged. His eyes shifted from Amber to the encircling faces of the bystanders. "I am a poor man," he whined. "How should I have money to lend? Come to me on the morrow; then mayhap I may have a few rupees. To-night I have neither cash nor time."
The hint was lost upon Amber. "A stone of price——" he persisted.
With a disturbed and apprehensive look, the money-lender rose. "Come, then," he grumbled, "if you must——"
A voice cried out behind Amber—"Heh!"——more a squeal than a cry. Intuitively, as at a signal of danger, he leaped aside. Simultaneously something like a beam of light sped past his head. The goldsmith uttered one dreadful, choking scream, and went to his knees. For as many as three seconds he swayed back and forth, his features terribly contorted, his thin old hands plucking feebly at the handle of a broadbladed dagger which had transfixed his throat. Then he tumbled forward on his face, kicking.
There followed a single instant of suspense and horror, then a mad rush of feet as the street stampeded into the shop. Voices clamoured to the skies. Somehow the lights went out.
Amber started to fight his way out. As he struggled on, making little headway through the press, a hand grasped his arm and drew him another way.