"And yours, sahib."

There was no bombast in the man's voice; it was said good-naturedly,
as a man might say, "There are some friends to whom I would lend
money." No man with any insight could mistake the truth that underlay
the boast. The Scotsman bowed.

"I am glad, indeed, to have met you. Will you sit down a little while?"

"Nay, sahib. The hour is late. I was but keeping the blood moving in
this horse of mine."

"Well, tell me, since you won't stay, have you any notion who the man
was whom Mahommed Gunga sent to get my letters? My daughter handed
them to him one evening, late, at this door."

"I am he, sahib."

"Then--I understood--perhaps I was mistaken--I thought it was his
man who came?"

"Praised be Allah, I am his man, sahib!"

"Oh! I wonder whether my servants praise God for the privilege!"
McClean made the remark only half-aloud and in English. Ali Partab
could not have understood the words, but he may have caught their
meaning, for he glanced sideways at the old hag mumbling in the shadow
and grinned into his beard. "Are you in communication with him? Could
you get a letter to him?"