“Good-by,” she said quietly. “If you reach the Ahbor Valley you’ll be safe enough—only do what he tells you.” Then, divining his intention: “No, take the dog. I would like her, but you may need her. The Lama said so. Good-by.”
It was cold outside. Ommony tied on Diana’s sheepskin jacket, which was hanging, cleaned and dried, from a peg in the hall. Below in the courtyard the sirdar turned and said abruptly:
“To your own room first.”
It was like being led out to be shot. In the gloom in the corner near Ommony’s door a brown-robed Tibetan waited, carrying something on his arm; Ommony seized Diana’s collar to keep her from flying at him. He and the sirdar followed Ommony into the room and waited while he lit the candles; then the sirdar struck a match and lit the overhead oil lamp.
“Where is Dawa Tsering?” Ommony asked suddenly.
The sirdar smiled, showing wonderfully even teeth that suggested not exactly cruelty, but the sort of familiarity with unavoidable unpleasantness that surgeons learn.
“He will come with us part of the way,” he said in a dead-level tone of voice.
Ommony bridled at that. It touched his own sense of responsibility.
“The man is my servant. What do you propose to do to him?”
“I am not his master.”