A piece of mortar from the top of the wall fell to the ground beside Ommony. He glanced up. It was growing very dark, but he thought he saw the shadow of a man’s head, vague against the colored gloom of an overhanging tree. The men who were talking moved on, toward the alley-mouth—passed it—turned, and started back again.
“Hullo!” said one of them, the taller, he with the spurs. “Do you notice the audience? Wait! Don’t go down there—that’s a nasty, damned dark alley—might be an accident.—Good evening!” he said, coming to a stand six feet away from Ommony. “I hope we haven’t disturbed your meditations.”
Ommony’s hand closed on Diana’s muzzle. She crowded herself closer against the wall.
“I say, I hope we haven’t disturbed your meditations!”
Ommony did not move.
“Maybe he doesn’t know English, sir.”
“Dammit, I can’t see his caste-mark. He looks like a Hindu. Haven’t a flash-light, have you?”
The younger of the two men struck a match; its yellow glare showed Ommony in high relief, but darkened the shadow behind him.
“By gad, sir, that’s the Brahman who came out of Vasantasena’s with the Lama!”
The last thing Ommony wanted was police recognition; with the best will in the world the police may bungle any intricate investigation, through over-zeal, and because they must depend on underqualified subordinates. He was satisfied to learn that McGregor had kept his promise not to unleash the Secret Service on the trail; disturbed to learn the police on the other hand were busy. During thirty seconds, until the match went out, he cultivated the insolent stare to which Brahmans treat “unclean” intruders.