“That’s a naked lie, and you know it, Mac! I can get through, if I burn all bridges. I haven’t learned what little I do know by letting you know what I was doing. You know that.”
“Um-m-m! If you’re killed—or disappear?”
“That’s my look-out.”
“As a friend, you’re all right. As an assistant, you’re a disappointing, independent devil!” said McGregor. “You’re as useful as a bellyache to open a can of corned beef with! All right. Dammit. Have your own way. Remember, I shall take you at your word. If you’re ditched, there’s no ambulance.”
“Splendid! Then here’s where I vanish—pull up by that lamp-post, won’t you? Well—so long, old chap. Nothing personal—eh, Mac?”
“No, damn you! Nothing personal. I wish I were coming with you. Good luck. Good-by, old chap.”
They did not shake hands, for that might have implied that there was a dwindling friendship, to be bridged or denied recognition. Diana sprang down from behind and Dawa Tsering followed her. McGregor drove away, not looking back, and the sais—the sole occupant now of the back seat—sat with folded arms, staring straight along the middle of the street. But Ommony took no chances with the sais; he watched until the dog-cart turned a corner before he made a move of any kind.
Then he walked straight to a door between two shop-fronts and pounded on it. He had to wait about three minutes before the door was opened—gingerly, at first, then after a moment’s inspection, suddenly and wide.
A very sleepy-looking Jew confronted him—a Jew of the long-nosed type, with the earlock that betokened orthodoxy. He had a straggly beard, which he stroked with not exactly nervous but exceedingly alert long fingers.
“Ommony! This time of night!” he said in perfectly good English; but there was nothing that even resembled English about his make-up. He wore a turban of embroidered silk and a Kashmir shawl thrown over a cotton shirt and baggy pantaloons. His bare feet showed through the straps of sandals.