“True, an’ I’ll knot the rope for his neck.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Not a quarter of an hour, sir.  I comed up at once.”

The two set off together.  They quickly reached the house; Desmond recognized it as Omichand’s.  The evening was closing in, but no lights were visible through the chiks {hanging screens made of thin strips of bamboo} that covered the windows.  While Desmond was considering, two figures stepped down from the veranda and walked rapidly across the compound towards the gate in the wall.

At the first glance Desmond saw that Bulger had not been mistaken.  The taller of the two figures was disguised, but it was impossible to mistake the gloved right hand.  It was Diggle to a certainty.

“Are you game to capture them?” said Desmond.

Bulger grunted and gave a twist to his hook.

“I’ll take Diggle,” added Desmond:  “you go for the other man.”

They waited in the shadow of the wall.  The gate opened, the two men came out, and in an instant Desmond and his companion dashed forward.  Taken by surprise, the men had no time to defend themselves.  With his left hand Desmond caught at Diggle’s sword arm, and, pointing his rapier at his heart, said: 

“You are my prisoner, Mr. Diggle.”

At the same moment Bulger had caught the second man by the throat, and raising his formidable hook, cried: 

“Heave to, matey, or I’ll spoil your mug for you.”

The man uttered an exclamation in French, which ended in a wheeze as Bulger’s strong fingers clutched his windpipe.

But the next moment an unlooked-for diversion occurred.  Attracted by the sound of the rapid scuffle, a number of natives armed with lathis {bludgeons} rushed across the compound into the street, and came swiftly to the rescue.  Desmond and his companion had perforce to release their prisoners and turn to defend themselves.  With their backs against the wall they met the assailants, Desmond with his rapier, Bulger with his hook, each dexterously warding off the furious blows of the excited natives.  Diggle and the Frenchman took instant advantage of the opportunity to slip away, and the Englishmen had already got home more than one shrewd blow, provoking yells of pain from the attackers, when the onslaught suddenly ceased, and the natives stood rigid, as if under a spell.  Looking round, Desmond saw at the gate a bent old figure with dusky, wrinkled face and prominent eyes.  He wore a turban in which a jewel sparkled, and his white garment was girt with a yellow sash.

“What is this, sahib?” he said severely in careful English, addressing Desmond.

“’Tis pretty plain what it is,” said Desmond somewhat hotly; “we have been set upon by these six ruffians.”

The newcomer motioned with his hand, and the men slunk away.

“I regret, sahib.  The men are badmashes; Calcutta is unhappily in a disturbed state.”