This last was an afterthought. As it came to him he dropped the pistol by his side and felt for matches in the pocket of his coat, which hung over the back of a bedside chair. Finding one, he struck it noiselessly and, as the tiny flame broadened, drew his captive nearer.
It was a fat, mean, wicked face that stood out against the darkness: an ochre-tinted face with a wide, loose-lipped mouth and protruding eyes that blinked nervously into his. But he had never seen it before.
"Who are you?" He cast away the match as its flame died and snatched up his weapon.
"I was to say—"
"I heard that once. What's your name?"
"Dulla Dad, hazoor."
"And who are you from?"
"Hazoor, I was not to say."
"I think you'd better," suggested Amber, with grim significance.
"I am the hazoor's slave. I dare not say."