“I understand these mountains is called the ’Imalayas, sir,” Watkins replied in a tone that said clearly that he merely passed on a rumor he’d heard, and in no way vouched for it.
“Damn it, sir, we don’t want a lesson in geography!” the Major snapped.
“No, sir?” Watkins seemed surprised, then added apologetically, “My mistake, sir,” but the insolence still lurked in the voice and manner.
“Major Crespin means that we want to know,” Traherne intervened, “how far we are from the nearest point in India.”
“I really couldn’t say, sir.” Well, Traherne had not expected that he would. “Not so very far, I dessay, as the crow flies.”
“Unfortunately we’re not in a position to fly with the crow,” Traherne retorted. “How long does the journey take?” He had no idea that Watkins knowingly would admit anything useful, but there was always the chance that the better and finer trained intelligence might trap the boorish and feebler.
“They tell me it takes about three weeks to Cashmere,” the valet said indifferently.
“They tell you!” Crespin almost snarled. “Surely you must remember how long it took you?”
“No, sir,” Watkins spoke meekly now, but something far from meekness lurked in his shifty eyes. “Excuse me, sir—I’ve never been in India.”
“Not been in India?” Crespin was openly incredulous. And he added, “I was just thinking, as I looked at you, that I seemed to have seen you before.”