He unlocked a safe in the corner of the store and produced three small bars of solid gold, giving them to Ommony to weigh in the palm of his hand. But there was no mark upon them; nothing to identify their place of origin.
“I have had dozens like those from him—dozens!”
But Ommony could not be tempted to ask questions; he knew Benjamin too well—suspected that Benjamin was too shrewd an old philosopher to engage in nefarious trade; also that he was itching to divulge a confidence. If you scratch a man who itches, impulse ceases. Besides, he was perfectly sincere in not wanting to pry into Benjamin’s private affairs. To listen to them was another matter. Benjamin came and sat down on the pile of blankets—laid a hand on Ommony’s shoulder—thrust his chin forward, and screwed his eyes up.
“If he should know I told—”
“He’ll never learn from me.”
“Girls! Nice—little—young ones!”
Ommony looked startled—stung. There was the glare in his eyes of a man who has been scurvily insulted.
“Little European girls! Little orphans! Seven! Eh, Ommony? Now what do you think? And all the supplies for them—constantly—books—little garments. Ah! But they grow, those young ones! Stockings! Shoes! Now, what do you think of that?”
“Are you lying?” Ommony asked in a flat voice.
“Would I lie to you! Would I tell it to any other man. First to get the girls—and such a business! Healthy they must be, and well born—that is, nicely born. And the first was a little Jewess, eight years old at that time, from parents who were killed in Stamboul. That was not so very difficult; a Jew and his wife whom I knew intimately brought her as their own child to Bombay; and after that it was easy to dress her as a Hindu child, and to pretend she was a little young widow, and to smuggle her northward stage by stage. And once she reached Delhi there was the Middle Way, Ommony, the Middle Way! Hah! It was not so difficult. And the profit was very good.”