"And—ah—Sita Ram—"
"Sahib?"
"Say nothing, will you? By nothing I mean nothing! Hold your tongue, eh?"
"Certainly, sahib. Aware of the honor of my confidential position, I am always most discreet!"
"What are you doing with that waste-basket?"
"Taking it outside, sahib."
"The sweeper will do that in the morning."
"Am always discreet, sahib. Discretion is better part of secrecy! Better to burn all torn-up paper before daylight always!"
"Very good. You're quite right. Thank you, Sita Ram. Yes, burn the torn paper, please."
So Sita Ram, piecing together little bits of paper got a very good idea of what was in the letter that he carried. The bonfire in the road looked beautiful and gladdened his esthetic soul, but the secret information thrilled him, which was better. He crossed the river, and very late that night he found Tom Tripe, as sober as a judge, what with riding back and forth to the Blaines' house and searching in a cellar and what-not. He gave him the letter, and received a rupee because Tom's dog frightened him nearly out of his wits. Tom swore at the letter fervently, but that was Tom's affair, who could not guess the contents.