“Bad news flies fast, Dr. Traherne,” the Raja replied. “And too—this is Asia,” he added significantly. “But one thing you can perhaps tell me—is there any chance of their sentences being remitted?”
“I am afraid not, Your Highness,” Traherne answered reluctantly. And whatever reluctance he did or did not feel at the fact, he was most sincerely reluctant to tell it to the Raja of Rukh.
“Remitted?” Crespin broke in brashly. “I should rather say not. It was a cold-blooded, unprovoked murder!”
“Unprovoked, you think?” Rukh said evenly. “Well, I won’t argue the point. And the execution is to be—?”
He had asked it pointedly of Traherne, and Traherne replied, still more reluctantly than he had before—and smothering a strong desire to throttle Antony Crespin: “I think to-morrow—or the day after.” It might be worse than idle to lie to this man, who seemed uncannily provided with distant news.
“To-morrow, or the day after,” the Raja said musingly. “Yes.” Then, with even an added deference, he turned again to Lucilla. “Forgive me, Madam,” he begged; “I have kept you waiting.”
“Does Your Highness know anything of these men?” Traherne asked impulsively—and regretted instantly that he had.
Over his shoulder, looking Traherne full in the eyes, handing Mrs. Crespin carefully into the waiting litter, the Raja said very simply, “Know them? Oh, yes—they are my brothers.” Then, without giving time for comment or commiseration, and in a manner that unmistakably but delicately brooked none, he seated himself in his own litter, and clapped his hands twice. The bearers lifted the litters and moved away with them slowly. Lucilla Crespin’s went first, the Raja’s close after, the well-trained regular soldiers lining the way in single rank, and saluting as the litters passed. Watkins the valet followed close at heel to his master’s.
The Englishmen seated themselves in the chairs—there was no alternative.
“His brothers?” Crespin said uneasily as they did so. “What did he mean?”