The newcomer came on. In the half light it was easy to see that he was not a soldier but a court official. Indeed, before the searcher’s glance rested on the gray Arab, munching contentedly in his stall, or the tall sowar who stood in obscurity near his head, Frank felt almost sure that he was face to face with the trusted confidant who had carried out Roshinara Begum’s behests in the garden at Bithoor.
That fact saved the native’s life. The Englishman would have killed him without compunction were it not for the belief that the man was actually looking for him and for none other, and with friendly intent, too, else he would have brought a bodyguard.
Sure enough, the stranger’s first words were of good import. He could not see clearly into the dark stable and it was necessary to measure one’s utterances in Delhi just then.
“If you are one who rode into Delhi this morning I would have speech with you,” he muttered softly.
“Say on,” said Malcolm, gripping his sword.
“Nay, one does not give the Princess Roshinara’s instructions without knowing that they reach the ears they are meant for.”
The Englishman came out from the obscurity. He approached so quickly that the native started back, being far from prepared for Frank’s very convincing resemblance to a rissaldar of cavalry.
“I look for one—” he began, but Frank had no mind to lose time.
“For Malcolm-sahib?” he demanded.
“It might be some such name,” was the hesitating answer.