"Chandranath—here?" Roy's heart gave a jerk, half excitement, half apprehension.
"Your Honour has heard the man?"
"No. I'm glad of the chance."
As they entered, the second speaker stepped on to the platform....
True talk, indeed! There stood the boy who had whimpered under Scab Major's bullying, in the dark coat and turban of the educated Indian; his back half turned, in confidential talk with a friend, who had set a carafe and tumbler ready to hand. The light of a wall lamp shone full on his friend's face—clean-cut, handsome, unmistakable....
Dyán! Dyán—and Chandranath! It was the conjunction that confounded Roy and tinged elation with dismay. He could hardly contain himself till Dyán joined the audience; standing a little apart; not taking a seat. Something in his face reminded Roy of the strained fervour in his letter to Arúna. Carefully careless, he edged his way through the outer fringe of the audience, and volunteered a remark or two in Hindustani.
"A full meeting, brother. Your friend speaks well?"
Dyán turned with a start. "Where are you from, that you have not heard him?" He scrutinised Roy's appearance. "A hill man——?"
Roy edged nearer and spoke in English under his breath. "Dyán—look at me. Don't make a scene. I am Roy—from Jaipur."
In spite of the warning, Dyán drew back sharply. "What are you here for—spying?"