Amber looked upward. Overhead the soulless city slumbered in a stillness apparently unbroken, yet he who saw its profile rugged against the stars, could fancy what consternation was then, or presently would be, running riot through its haunted ways.
"How many of 'em are there, do you reckon?" he asked.
"Three or four hundred," replied the secret-agent absently; "the pick and flower of Indian unrest. My word, but this will kick up a row! Think of it, man! three hundred and fifty-odd lords and princes bagged all at once in the act of plotting the Second Mutiny! What a change it will work on the political face of the land! … And the best of it is, they simply can't get away."
"Is this the only exit, then—the way we escaped?"
"Not by three—all on the other side of the rocky where they rode up and left their horses. And that's where the most of 'em will come out, by twos and threes, like the animals out of the Ark, you know. What a catch!"
"And we've you to thank!"
"I? Oh, dear boy, thank the Tommies!"
"But what would we have done, or the Tommies either, without you?"
"What indeed!" Sophia echoed warmly. "I've had no chance, as yet—"
"Not another word, my dear Miss Farrell!" Labertouche protested, acutely uncomfortable. "To've been able to help you out of the scrape is enough."