"I'll pull a chair up and chat to you till he's—"
"No, Captain Barlow—" Barlow winced at this formality—"Father, I'm sure, wants you in this matter; in fact, I think a chuprassi is on his way now to your bungalow with the Resident's salaams."
Barlow laid his fingers on the girl's shoulder: "I'm ghastly tired,
Beth. I'll come back to you."
"Yes, India is enervating," she commented in a flat tone.
Barlow had a curious impression that the girl's grey eyes had turned yellow as she made this observation.
"Ah, Captain, glad you've come," Hodson said, rising and extending a hand across a flat-topped desk. "I'm—I'm—well—pull a chair. This is one Ajeet Singh," and he drooped slightly his thin, lean, bald head toward the Bagree Chief, who stood stiff and erect, one arm in a sling.
At this, Ajeet, knowing it for an informal introduction, put his hand to his forehead, and said, "Salaam, Sahib."
"Tulwar play, sir, and an appeal for protection to the British, eh?" and Barlow indicated the arm in the sling.
Still speaking in English Hodson said: "As to that,—" he pursed his thin lips,—"something dreadful has happened; this man has been mixed up in a decoity and has come for protection; he wants to turn Approver."
"The usual thing; when these cut-throats are likely to be caught they turn Judas; to save their own necks they offer a sacrifice of their comrades."