“What have you to say before I kill you as you deserve—traitor, renegade, Judas?” he hissed.
“Nothing—except to thank you for saving me the job,” was the reply, spoken with difficulty, for a hand was on the prostrate man’s throat. The grip was loosed, and Colonel Keeling rose to his feet and stood glaring at him, his fists clenched at his sides.
“You’re right. The job is not one I care for. You can go, and relieve the earth of your presence yourself.”
“Don’t be afraid. Life is not so delightful as to make me cling to it. Yes; I’m down. Kick me again if you like.”
“Go, while I can keep my hands off you, will you?”
“Tell me where to find Colin Ross, and I will. He’s not at his old quarters, and I don’t think he would turn his back—even on me.”
“You miserable hypocrite! At his old quarters? when you stood by to see him martyred in the palace square at Gamara! Don’t try to throw dust in my eyes. I know the whole story.”
But the man sat up with a look of genuine horror. “On my honour, Keeling—good God! what can I swear by to make you believe me?—I know nothing of this. Tell me what you mean. When did it happen?”
“Less than a year after you disappeared. Colin went to find you—rescue you——” In spite of himself, Colonel Keeling was moved by the terror on the man’s face. “He was denounced by your friend Mirza Fazl-ul-Hacq, imprisoned and tortured, then beheaded because he would not turn Mussulman and enter the Khan’s army. You were present, in command of the troops. You saw it all.”
“That was not Colin. That was Whybrow. Now I know what you mean.”