“Ah, sure the thing will come in some time,” said Brian vaguely. “Let me have a try with it. Rubbing, now—that’s what it wants, ain’t it? I’ll give it a rubbing it won’t forget in a hurry!”
But no amount of rubbing produced any effective manifestation, and now the stone was to be made useful in another way. Any pawnbroker would surely be willing to advance three hundred rupees on such a treasure. But the difficulty was to find him. Eveleen could not quite imagine herself scouring the Qadirabad Bazar for a pawnbroker—especially with a mounted escort at her heels—and she did not like the idea of trusting any of the servants. Then came a happy thought.
“Tom Carthew, of course! A disreputable acquaintance, Ambrose may call him if he likes, but who better can there be to help me do a disreputable thing? Tom Carthew’s the man!”
CHAPTER V.
THE SEAL OF SOLOMON.
The escort must have formed a high idea of the courage of European ladies when Eveleen led the way the next morning in the direction of the very canal where, as they had learnt from the syce, she had barely escaped with her life from the hands of infuriated villagers. But this time she had no intention of continuing Bajazet’s education—so alarmingly interrupted. What she wanted was to come across Carthew again, on his way back from his artillery practice. She took great credit to herself for refraining from sending to him directly, since Richard had said that would injure him, but it is to be feared that at the back of her mind was the determination to do so if necessary. Time was pressing, and Brian must have his money. Happily, however, it was not necessary, for Tamas Sahib came in sight with his escort while she was still well on the Qadirabad side of the canal. Both parties stopped short, and while Eveleen was hesitating whether to ride on towards Carthew or send a messenger to summon him to speak to her, one of his men detached himself from the rest and rode towards her party. But he made no attempt to speak to her, addressing himself instead to the Daffadar in command of the escort, who went forward a pace or two to meet him. The messenger delivered over something long and thin, wrapped in a silk handkerchief, and when it was handed to Eveleen with the Topkhana Daroga’s salams, she found it was the lost whip. But there was no time to waste in rejoicing, and she turned boldly to the Daffadar.
“Let the messenger bear my salams to the Daroga Sahib, and say that I beg him to approach and receive my thanks.”
The man looked surprised and doubtful, but her tone and bearing were so carelessly assured that there was no room for misunderstanding. He repeated her words to the messenger, and when he had ridden back and reported them, Carthew came forward in his turn, with evident reluctance.
“Glad to have got you your whip, ma’am,” he said, with the bluffness that covers embarrassment. “The villagers had it hidden, but I made ’em give it up. And now, if you’ll excuse me goin’ back——”
“But I want you to do something for me first,” Eveleen broke in, anticipating a hasty withdrawal at the close of the sentence. “Can you tell me of a pawnbroker?”
“A pawnbroker, ma’am?” Measureless astonishment was in his tone.