“Of course we may. And what’s the good of going off without getting hold of all the information you can? If I thought it was any good, I should say stay and eat your breakfast quietly, and let me go to the Bazar, but I know it wouldn’t be.”
“Not a scrap!” agreed Brian, and would barely consent to snatch a mouthful of breakfast while Bajazet was being saddled and brought round. As they rode to the Bazar, the surgeon was full of cheerful anticipations. Of course Mr Firozji would have sent word to his partners of his safety—he was a fool not to have thought of it before—the Parsees were well known for their family affection. But when Mr Firozji’s brother appeared, with many bows and smiles, to enquire the pleasure of the honourable gentlemen, he had nothing to tell. Certainly he had not expected any messenger—the boats would have been far beyond the limits within which the storm was likely to be dangerous. He was quite sure his brother was safe and well. Had it been otherwise he would have felt it here, in the heart—slapping an organ which was well protected by many layers of adipose tissue. He did not look to hear anything until his brother had reached Bab-us-Sahel—why should he? And the young Sahib was alarmed about his sister—feared she might have been wrecked? That was natural, but—if he might be pardoned the word—foolish. How could she possibly have journeyed in greater safety than under the care of his brother and the protection of his guard?
“Would it be a military guard?” asked Brian.
The Parsee was voluble in his disclaimer. No, no; the merchandise on board the boats was immensely valuable to the poor merchants whose means of livelihood it was, but of no importance to the Government, so that a guard could not be asked for. Mr Firozji had hired a dozen—er—respectable men, well known to him for their courage and fidelity, and armed them with swords and shields for the journey.
“Not much good against the Codgers’ matchlocks,” remarked Brian, when they had taken their leave. The surgeon was meditating, and did not respond for a moment.
“Did it strike you there was anything queer about the business?” he burst out suddenly. “Think!”
“It struck me the ‘er—respectable men’ would probably be some of our late opponents. That was all.”
“Then you missed something far more fishy. Why was there no military guard? It might not have been granted simply to protect Parsee merchandise, but for an officer and his wife it would have been forthcoming in a moment. The General would break any man that refused it. Then why wasn’t it asked for?”
“How would I know? Because my sister refused to wait while the application was made possibly.”
“Possibly, but why should old Fatty there not have said so? Of course old Firozji may have thought his kind of guard would come cheaper, and that Ambrose and his wife would be such valuable prizes for the Codgers that he himself could slip away unnoticed if there was a scrimmage. But this is all nonsense. It’s most unlikely there has been any scrimmage at all.”