“Hot water, Ramsa Lal!” she said. “We must give him brandy.”
“But it is useless, Mem Sahib; he has not been bitten—there is no mark; it may be a fever from the jungle.”
Moreen beat her hands together helplessly.
“We must do something!” she said; “we must do something.”
A sudden change took place in Major Fayne. The convulsive movements ceased and he lay quiet, and breathing quite regularly. The glassy look began to fade from his eyes, and with every appearance of being in full possession of his senses, he stared at Moreen and spoke:
“You shall repent of your words, Harringay,” he said in a quiet voice. “You have deliberately accused me of faking the cards. I care nothing for any of you. Why should I attempt such a thing? I could buy and sell you all!...”
Moreen dropped slowly back upon her knees again, white to the lips, watching her husband. With the same appearance of perfect sanity, but now addressing the empty air, he continued:
“In my tent—my wife will tell you it is true—my wife, Harringay, do you hear?—I have jewelled cups and strings of rubies, enough to buy up Mandalay! I blundered on to them in that old ruined temple back in the jungle, not five hundred yards from your bungalow. Harringay—think of it—a treasure-room like that within sight of your verandah! There are snakes there, snakes, you understand, in hundreds; but it is worth risking for a big fortune like mine.”
“He mixes time and place,” murmured Ramsa Lal. “He talks to the Commissioner Sahib in Mandalay of what is here in the Valley of the Just.”
Moreen nodded, catching her breath hysterically.