“She is to be trusted?” Traherne swung round as he spoke.
“Habsolutely, sir,” the man said proudly, with a bow. “She is—in a manner of speakin’—my wife, sir.”
“Mrs. Watkins, eh?” Crespin exclaimed, a little amused in spite of his growing anxiety. Thomas Atkins never did that. But apparently Watkins had. “Mrs. Watkins!”
“Yessir,” Watkins admitted, “I suppose you would say so.”
Traherne was neither amused by them nor interested in Watkins’ matrimonial ventures—church-blessed or nominal—and he had no idea whether the fellow was telling the truth or not. But he spoke to him again, “But now look here, Watkins,” he began, “you say we’re three weeks away from Cashmere—yet the Raja knew of the sentence passed on these subjects of his, who were tried only three days ago. How do you account for that?”
“I can’t, sir,” the man said stolidly. “All I can say is, there’s queer things goes on here.”
“Queer things?” Traherne asked quickly—he was drawing the sleek valet at last!—“What do you mean?”
“Well, sir,” came the slow, provoking answer, “them priests you know—they goes in a lot for what ’Is ’Ighness calls magic—”
“Oh, come, Watkins—you don’t believe in that!” Dr. Traherne jibed impatiently, with an oath just behind his lips.
“Well, sir, p’raps not,” the English valet said slyly. “I don’t, not to say believe in it. But there’s queer things goes on. I can’t say no more, nor I can’t say no less. If you’ll excuse me, sir, I must just run my eye over the dinner table. ’Is ’Ighness will be here directly.”