“Aye! And they have fear also! They seek their priest—listen.”
There were voices plainly audible in the courtyard down below, and two more men stood at the foot of the winding stairway whispering. By listening intently they could hear almost what they said, for the stone stairway acted like a whispering-gallery, the voices echoing up it from wall to wall.
“Why do they seek him here?”
“They have sought elsewhere and not found him; and there is talk—He claimed the memsahib as his share of the plunder. They think—”
Mahommed Khan glared at the trussed-up priest and swore a savage oath beneath his breath.
“Have they touched the stables yet?” he demanded.
“No, not yet. The loot is to be divided evenly among certain of the priests, and no man may yet lay a hand on it.”
“Is there a guard there?”
“No. No one would steal what the priests claim, and the priests will not trust one another. So the horses stand in their stalls unwatched.”
The voices down the stairs grew louder, and the sound of footsteps began ascending, slowly and with hesitation.