“Nor of whose blood this is on the deck?”
“Nothing. How should we? Water has washed it, sun has dried it, maybe many times over. There was no dead body on board—that at least we know.”
“Here is a bullet sticking in the woodwork and another stain of blood. Are any of your men wounded?”
“Have I not said there was no one on board, dead or alive?” The chief’s tone betrayed his contempt for the very palpable trap set for him. “How then could they fire on my men?”
“Yet this bullet belongs to a Farangi pistol, and the Sahib’s guns are all gone. Here is the rack in which they were placed, ready to his hand if he desired to shoot at a pelican or a crocodile, after the manner of sahibs; but it is empty. The guns could not be washed away and the rack left.”
“Nay, but”—triumphantly—“this Sahib was sick, and his guns were not set out in the rack. They were——” sudden confusion as he realised how hopelessly he had given himself away, then a show of violent indignation to cover it. “They were washed away, I say. Who are you, O base-born one, to cast doubt upon my words?”
With extraordinary self-command for a native, Puggy ignored the attempt to lead him aside into personalities—ignored also the chief’s self-betrayal, and spoke sadly and meekly. “Truly I am nothing—the meanest of the attendants on the great and rich Sahib here, who seeks news of his sister. So much wealth would he pour out on any camp that had received her and shown her kindness that the poorest man in it would wear silk and kincob thereafter.”
The chief was interested—dangerously interested. His eyes wandered to the line of sepoys, then to his own men, very visible now in the bushes in the excitement of listening to what was going on. Clearly he was calculating whether the greater numbers on his side would counterbalance the weight of the soldiers’ superior weapons if he made a sudden dash. The matter was difficult to decide. “I perceive that this Sahib is one of the Bahadar Jang’s young men—so handsome and noble of aspect is he,” he temporised. “Is it true that he is also rich?”
“He could take up the riches of Delhi in one hand,” was the boastful answer. “And to his wealth he adds a yet more admirable prudence. All his possessions he confided, before starting on this journey, to a virtuous friend of his father’s, who has sworn upon the Gospel not to part with so much as an anna unless the Sahib presents himself to ask for it in person.”
“There are messages to be sent—letters.”