At any rate, the turban was destined not to be shredded into lint that day. She busied herself with tearing up the rest of the linen. When night came, and Mr. Mayne could leave his post, she showed him the paper and asked him to translate it.
He was a good Eastern scholar, but the dull rays of a small oil lamp were not helpful in a task always difficult to English eyes. He bent his brows over the script and began to decipher some of the words.
“‘Malcolm-sahib ... the Company’s 3d Regiment of Horse ... heaven-born Princess Roshinara Begum....’ Where in the world did you get this, Winifred, and how did it come into your possession?” he said.
“It was in Mr. Malcolm’s turban—the one you brought me to-day from his quarters.”
“In his turban? Do you mean that it was hidden there?”
“Yes, something of the kind.”
Mayne examined the paper again.
“That is odd,” he muttered after a pause.
“But what does the writing mean? You say it mentions his name and that of the Princess Roshinara? Surely it has some definite significance?”
The Commissioner was so taken up with the effort to give each spidery curve and series of distinguishing dots and vowel marks their proper bearing in the text that he did not catch the note of disdain in his niece’s voice.