“Where is this bungalow, friend?” said he at last, seeing nothing but a straight road in front.
“Patience, brother. ’Tis now quite near. It lies behind that tope of trees yonder.”
The other half turned to ascertain in which direction his guide was pointing.
“It is not on the main road, then?”
“No. A man who has gold worth the keeping loves not to dwell where all men pass.”
A little farther, and Chumru announced:
“We turn off here.”
It was dark. He thought he had hit upon a by-way, but no sooner did the horse quit the shadow of the trees by the roadside than he saw that he had been misled by the wheel-tracks of a ryot’s cart. The Brahmin sniffed suspiciously.
“Is there no better way than this?” he cried, when his charger nearly stumbled into a deep ditch.
“One only, but you may deem it too far,” was the quiet answer, and Chumru, placing his left hand on the Brahmin’s mouth, plunged a long, thin knife up to the hilt between his ribs.