“And who is to go?”
“Who? Oh, I think that old daffadar of Haycraft’s, Sultan Jān, was the man pitched upon at last. He is the foxiest old beggar alive, and less known about here than most of our fellows.”
“Only Sultan Jān?” in deep disappointment. “But you are dark—you know the language so well—you are such a good scout—you are going?”
“I, Miss North? Why in the world——”
“To find Dick, because you and he are such friends—because I ask you.”
“I am very much honoured, but surely the Commissioner is the natural person——”
“The Commissioner would be too lame to go,” cried Mabel, in confusion, “and even if he wasn’t, I couldn’t ask him.” Fitz’s look of surprise, less for the fact than for her mention of it, reminded her that her words must sound strangely in his ears. “Perhaps I ought to explain,” she stammered. “I—I am not engaged to Mr Burgrave now.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Fitz slowly, readjusting his ideas as he spoke. Only the night before he had heard Haycraft say to Flora that the Commissioner and Miss North must have quarrelled, for they had not spoken for days, and she was not wearing his ring. Certain hopes of Fitz’s own had sprung up anew at that moment, only to be dashed to earth again by Flora’s confident assurance that the estrangement could be only a temporary one. She was certain that the engagement was not broken off, or Mabel would have told her. Now, however, it appeared that Flora had been mistaken.
Fitz drew a deep breath. “You want me to go in disguise and make inquiries about your brother, because you ask me? Not so very long ago we were discussing a certain subject, and I agreed not to mention it again without your permission. If I go, will you give me that permission?”
Mabel recoiled from him, aghast. “You are trying to drive a bargain with me for Dick’s life?” she cried, in horror. “I should never have believed it of you.”