Fateh Mohammed was manifestly uneasy. The affair was not so simple as he deemed it. Moreover, by placing a degree of faith in Mowbray, he applied salve to his own wounded vanity. In simple parlance, if he managed things aright now, he would not look such a dupe in the eyes of others as he was in his own estimation.
“Never was man more perplexed,” he murmured. “You may be honest! How can I tell? Certainly, the King of Kings does not say you are to be treated with contumely, yet, what security have I that you will act according to your promises?”
Mowbray resolved to risk all on a final hazard. He turned to Roger.
“Give me the cedar box,” he said.
The big man reached for his hat. Cunningly tied inside the lofty crown was the gift of Nur Mahal.
“I am a heavy sleeper,” he grinned in explanation, “and I thought none would search there though they might scour my clothes. When waking, I reckoned to hold the gew-gaws whilst my brains were undisturbed, so I kept them under the same thatch.”
“Here!” cried Mowbray, opening the box and handing it to Fateh Mohammed, “these diamonds are worth a lakh and a half of rupees. They shall be my bond.”
To a native of India, such a guarantee was worth a thousand oaths. Fateh Mohammed might be trusted to take this view and none other. The production of a hidden hoard showed that this most enigmatical Englishman was really in earnest. It needed only a glance to assure him that the gems were worth the sum named, and more. His voice was thick as he answered:—
“Soul of the Prophet! you give me a worthy bail!”
“You think so! See to it that the box and its contents are well cared for. If not I, Nur Mahal knows each stone. And now, if we are to march ere the hot hours, let us eat.”