Alan Hawke heaved a sigh of easy contentment when he had brought the chronique scandahuse of Delhi down to the day and hour.
“You say that she is beautiful, this girl?”
“As the stars on the sea!” nodded Ram Lal.
“And the Swiss woman?”
“Never leaves her for a minute. They see no one, for all men say the old Commissioner will take her home, to Court when he is gazetted!”
“None of the great people go there?” keenly queried Hawke.
“Not even the fine ladies,” laughed Ram Lal. “The old fellow may have his own memories of the past. He trusts no one. The girl is only a bulbul in a golden cage and with no one to sing to.” Hawke cut short Ram Lal’s flowery figures.
“Does the Swiss woman trade with you?” he demanded.
“Yes, she buys a few simple things—my peddlers take the Veiled Rose many rich things. The old Sahib is very generous to the child. And the dragon loves trinkets, too!” Then Alan Hawke’s eyes gleamed.
“She knows your shop here?”