She led him into the avenue of cypresses. When he would have spoken she caught his arm.
“Not here!” she whispered. “I am told you are lodged in the Peacock Room. Let us converse there in privacy.”
“You know so much,” he murmured, “that perchance you can tell me what has befallen Roger Sainton?”
She stopped.
“Why did he leave you?” she asked.
“He went to rescue one whom he promised not to abandon. My fear of intrigue led him to bring the lady here ere it was too late.”
“To bring a woman—here!”
“Why not? If one woman, why not another?”
“Come!” she urged. “We are at cross purposes, but I have no information as to Sainton-sahib. I had hoped he was with you, for he is worth a thousand. Silence now!”
His feet crunched the gravel of the path, yet he disdained to walk stealthily. Nur Mahal’s tiny slippers made no noise. She moved by his side with swift grace, and when he would have made a détour, led him to the main entrance, paying no heed to those of the house servants stationed at the door, though they stared as if she were a ghost. It may be that some among them were aware of her identity, but in any case the apparition of such a woman, unveiled, in the company of a foreigner, was sufficiently remarkable in India to create unbounded astonishment.