And then at last came Dawa Tsering, not pleased with himself but trying to appear pleased, adjusting his eyes to the dimness as Benjamin let him in by the back door.
“Where is Ommonee?”
He stared about him, brushed past Ommony contemptuously, and at last saw the cast-off dinner jacket and white shirt. He broke into the jargon-Hindustani that serves for lingua franca in that land of a hundred tongues, chattering as he hurried along the passage past the stairs and back again:
“Where is he? Is he hiding? Has he gone?” Then, shouting at last in something near panic: “Oh—Ommonee!”
He stared at Diana, but she gave him no information. She lay curled up on the floor, apparently asleep. Benjamin looked non-committal—busy considering something else.
“Where is he—thou?” the Hillman demanded, coming to a stand in front of Ommony and fingering the handle of his knife. The light was dim just there where the saddles were piled in a ten-foot heap.
“Would you know his voice?” asked Ommony.
“Aye, in a crowd!”
“Would you know his walk?”
“None better! Seen from behind, when he is thinking, he rolls thus, like a bear. But who art thou? Where is he?”