“If you will excuse me, I will fetch them.”

“Stay!” said Desmond, as the man moved toward the door.  He had not lowered the pistol.  “Where are they?”

“They are in my office beside the godown.”

“Very well.  It would be a pity to trouble you to bring them here.  I will go with you.  Will you lead the way?”

He knew it was a lie.  Valuable papers would not be left in a hut of an office, and he had already noticed a curiously wrought almara {cabinet} at one end of the room—­just the place to keep documents.

There was the shadow of a scowl on the Armenian’s face.  The man hesitated; then walked towards the door:  stopped as if at a sudden recollection; and turned to Desmond with a bland smile.

“I was forgetting,” he said, “I brought the papers here for safety’s sake.”

He went to the almara, searched for a moment, and handed two papers to Desmond.

“There, sir,” he said, with a quite paternal smile; “you take the responsibility.  In these unfortunate circumstances”—­he waved his hand in the direction of the factory—­“it is, believe me, a relief to me to see the last of these papers.

“That is well.”

But Desmond, as he took the papers, felt himself in a quandary.  Though he could speak, he could not read Hindustani!  The papers might not be the dastaks after all.  What was he to do?

The peons were not likely to be able to read.  He scanned the papers.  There was the name Merriman in English characters, but all the rest was in native script.  The smile hovering on the Armenian’s face annoyed Desmond, and he was still undecided what to do when a voice at his elbow gave him welcome relief.

“Babu Surendra Nath Chuckerbutti,” announced the darwan.

The Babu entered.

“Come and tell me if these are our dastaks,” said Desmond.

The Babu ran his eyes over the papers, and declared: 

“Yes, sir, they are the identical papers, and I perceive the signature of the Faujdar is dated three weeks ago.”

“Thank you,” said Desmond.

“Now, Coja Solomon, I must ask you to come with me.”

“Why, sir—­” began the Armenian, no longer smiling.

“I will explain to you by and by.—­

“What is it, Surendra Nath?”

The Babu whispered a word or two in his ear.

“A happy thought!” said Desmond.  “Surendra Nath suggests that I should borrow that excellent robe I see yonder, Khwaja; and your turban also.  They will become me better than this khitmatgar’s garb, I doubt not.”

Coja Solomon looked on helplessly as Desmond exchanged his meaner garments for the richer clothes of his unwilling host.

“Now we will go.  You will tell the darwan that you have gone down to the ghat, so that if a question is asked he will be at no loss for an answer.”

In the faint light of the rising moon the barrel of the pistol gleamed as they came into the open.  The Armenian marched between Desmond and the Babu.  Behind came the three peons, moving as silently as ghosts.