“Very good of him,” said Graham, who, finding the danger passed and his wife safe, was beginning to feel embarrassed. “Thank him, and tell him that she is greatly indebted!”
He took Eileen’s arm, and turned to force a way through the strangely silent group about. But the aged porter seized the hem of the girl’s white skirt, gently detaining her. As he rose upon his knees, Mohammed, with marks of unusual deference, handed him his green turban. The old man, still clutching Eileen’s dress, signed that his dirty bundle should likewise be passed to him. This was done.
Graham was impatient to get away. But——
“Humour him for a moment, dear,” said Eileen softly. “We don’t want to hurt the poor old fellow’s feelings.”
Into the bundle the old man plunged his hand, and drew out a thin gold chain upon which hung a queerly cut turquoise. He stood upright, raised the piece of jewellery to his forehead and to his lips, and held it out, the chain stretched across his open palms, to Eileen.
“He must be some kind of pedlar,” said Graham.
Eileen shook her head, smiling.
“Mohammed, tell him that I cannot possibly take his chain,” she directed. “But thank him all the same, of course.”
Mohammed, his face averted from the statuesque old figure, bent to her ear.
“Take it!” he whispered. “Take it! Do not refuse!”