The doorkeeper’s knees yielded. Here was one who read his thoughts.
“Not so, protector of the poor,” he gasped, “but many have come within the hour, and there may be others.”
“Many, sayest thou? There are not twenty servants in the house all told,” and he shook the fellow till his teeth rattled.
“I am a poor man, sahib—and I do as I am bid. Those who come with a sign—I admit,” was the stuttering answer.
“What manner of sign?”
“Some tap once and cry sufed-kira (death watch); others tap thrice and say Jai (victory), and it was my hukm to admit both without question.”
If the trembling wretch’s confession needed evidence it was fittingly supplied. From without came three slight knocks and a voice:—
“Within there, brother. The word is Jai!”
Mowbray released the durwán, sheathed his dagger and drew his sword. He motioned to the door.