Baboo Dass now sat up; and, returning consciousness picturing the forms of Swinton and Finnerty, remembrance brought back the assault, and he yelled in terror, crying: "Spare me—spare my life! Take the sapphire!"
"Don't be frightened, baboo," Swinton soothed. "The man who struck you is gone."
Realising who his rescuers were, Baboo Dass gave way to tears of relief, and in this momentary abstraction framed an alibi. "Kind masters," he said presently, "I am coming by the path to your bungalow for purpose of beseeching favour, and am hearing too much strife—loud cry of 'Thief!' also profane expostulation in Hindustani word of hell. Here two men is fight, and I am foolish fellow to take up arms for peace. Oh, my master, one villain is smote me and I swoon."
"You're a fine liar, baboo," Finnerty declared crisply.
"No, master, not——"
"Shut up! I mean, tell me why you sent this thief, who is dead, to steal the sapphire?"
"Not inciting to theft, sar; this thief is himself steal the sapphire."
"How do you know he stole a sapphire?" Swinton asked quietly.
Baboo Dass gasped. Perhaps his mind was still rather confused from the blow—he had been trapped so easily.
"Perhaps there was no other," Finnerty suggested seductively. "I believe you murdered this man, baboo; I fear you'll swing for it."