“Him that you know of. Why make this pretence? The man must die, or all our work goes for naught.”
“I don’t know of any one of the kind, and I’m hanged if I know what you’re driving at. But it seems you’re trying to get me to countenance a murder, and I’m going to have you put in prison.”
“Nay, sahib, not so,” said the Mirza softly. “There are many things I could tell Kīlin Sahib and Haigh Sahib’s Mem which they would like to know. And they would tell the Miss Sahib, and what then?”
Ferrers hesitated for a moment. Could he allow the facts to which the Mirza alluded to become public? His uncle might laugh at them, though there were details by which even he would be disgusted, but Colin and Penelope would never speak to him again—of that he was certain. He moved away from the steps.
“Go,” he said. “I will not give you the order you ask for, but if you keep secret what you know, I will allow you to escape.”
“Then you will let Kīlin Sahib go free?”
“Most certainly, if I can only convict him with the help of murder.”
“And all that I have done—my services, my duty to those who sent me forth—am I to have no satisfaction?”
“You shall have a halter if you don’t take yourself off. Never let me see your face again.”
“Nay, sahib, think not you can cast me off; our fates are joined together. Rāss Sahib and his sister may seem to have gained possession of you for a time, but it is not so. The contest is yet to come, and the victory will be mine. We shall meet, and before very long, and you will know the full extent of the power I have over you.” The confidence of the man’s tone made Ferrers’ blood run cold. He took a step towards him, but the Mirza seemed to vanish into the darkness, and, search as he would, he could find no trace of him.