‘Assuredly, Sahib. He was a good master, and cherished his dependants.’
‘That is true. I am very tired, but I go buck-shooting to-morrow. Give me the little sharp rifle that I use for black-buck; it is in the case yonder.’
The man stooped over the case; handed barrels, stock, and fore-end to Strickland, who fitted all together, yawning dolefully. Then he reached down to the gun-case, took a solid-drawn cartridge, and slipped it into the breech of the ‘360 Express.
‘And Imray Sahib has gone to Europe secretly! That is very strange, Bahadur Khan, is it not?’
‘What do I know of the ways of the white man. Heaven-born?’
‘Very little, truly. But thou shalt know more anon. It has reached me that Imray Sahib has returned from his so long journeyings, and that even now he lies in the next room, waiting his servant.’
‘Sahib!’
The lamplight slid along the barrels of the rifle as they levelled themselves at Bahadur Khan’s broad breast.
‘Go and look!’ said Strickland. ‘Take a lamp. Thy master is tired, and he waits thee. Go!’
The man picked up a lamp, and went into the dining-room, Strickland following, and almost pushing him with the muzzle of the rifle. He looked for a moment at the black depths behind the ceiling-cloth; at the writhing snake under foot; and last, a gray glaze settling on his face, at the thing under the tablecloth.