"What on earth's the meaning of this?" he asked, as the _cortège_ drew
up before the bungalow. "Who are these men? And where did you
find them?"

Grantham made his report, and then the wounded man was lifted out and
carried to a hut at the rear of the main block of buildings. The little
man watched everything with an eagle eye, as if he were afraid some evil
might be practised upon his companion. When the blind man had been
placed on a bed, and his foot attended to as well as the rough surgery
of the place would admit, Grantham did something he had not already
done, and that was to ask them their names.

"My name is Kitwater," said the blind man, "and the name of my friend
here is Codd--Septimus Codd. He's one of the best and staunchest little
fellows in the world. I don't know whether our names will convey much to
you, but such as they are you are welcome to them. As a matter of fact,
they are all we have with which to requite your hospitality."

Why it should have been so I cannot say, but it was evident from the
first that Captain Handiman did not believe the account the refugees
gave of themselves. He was one of that peculiar description of persons
who have an idea that it adds to their dignity not to believe anything
that is told them, and he certainly acted up to it on every
possible occasion.

"There's more in the case than meets the eye," he said suspiciously,
"and I fancy, if only we could see the bottom of it, we should discover
that your two _protégés_ are as fine a pair of rascals as could be found
on the Continent of Asia."