“Like those who did poor Haredale in?” Crespin asked, referring to the crime for which the newspapers had reported the perpetrators were to be hanged.
“Precisely.”
“D’you think,” Crespin asked, shifting unhappily on his seat, “our host was serious when he said they were his brothers? Or was he only pulling our leg, curse his impudence?”
“He probably meant caste-brothers, or simply men of his race,” the doctor surmised. “But even so, it’s awkward.”
“I don’t see what these beggars, living at the back of the north wind, have got to do with Indian politics,” Crespin grumbled. “We’ve never interfered with them.”
“Oh, it’s a case of Asia for the Asians,” the other solved it. “Ever since the Japanese beat the Russians, the whole continent has been itching to kick us out.”
“So that they may cut each other’s throats at leisure, eh?” Crespin asked almost quarrelsomely.
Traherne answered no less so. Any pretext or none would have served them for dire quarrel now—only a woman’s peril held them in leash. “We Westerners never cut each other’s throats, do we?” he snarled.
But still he watched the door.
Crespin began a retort, but cut it short, as he saw that the English valet was in the room, and Traherne turning expectantly at the sound saw Watkins too, and though disappointed was glad. Both the gentlemen were glad to see the serving man. Any interruption was welcome, any human third a real relief.