“Beshakl,” said Adam, while the man gasped. “Imam Din has caught four men, and there are some more at Peshawur. Bus! Bus! Bus! [Enough.]”
“Thou didst get drunk by the way-side, and didst make a false case to cover it. Speak!”
Like a good many other men, Strickland, in possession of a few facts, was irresistible. The groom groaned.
“I—I did not get drunk till—till—Protector of the Poor, the mare rolled.”
“All horses roll at Dhunnera. The road is too narrow before that, and they smell where the other horses have rolled. This the bullock-drivers told me when we came up here,” said Adam.
“She rolled. So her saddle was cut and the curb-chain lost.”
“See!” said Adam, tugging a curb-chain from his pocket. “That woman in the shop gave it to me for a love-gift. Beshakl said it was not his when I showed it. But I knew.”
“Then they at the grog-shop, knowing that I was the Servant of the Presence, said that unless I drank and spent money they would tell.”
“A lie! A lie!” said Strickland. “Son of an owl, speak the truth now at least.”
“Then I was afraid because I had lost the curb-chain, so I cut the saddle across and about.”