“God be praised!” exclaimed the Armenian fervently.  “You were in time, sir.  I was seeking safety.  The Faujdar of Murshidabad villainously ill-used me.  He owes me much, but there is no gratitude in him.  I saw that neither my life nor my goods were safe, so I packed up what valuables I could and left with my servants, intending to go to Patna, where I have a house.  I had just reached this village when I saw a band of some fifty horsemen approaching from the other end, and fearing that I might be set upon and plundered I hastily concealed my goods at the edge of the tank hard by.  Alas! it availed me nothing.  My servants were dispersed, and the risaldar of the horsemen, a European, seized me and thrust me into this house, abandoned like all the rest, for the people fled before his approach, fearing he would burn and destroy.  Then I was tied up as you saw, until I confessed where my valuables were hidden; one of my servants must have betrayed me.  The risaldar promised to release me as soon as I should confess:  but instead of that he set fire to the straw out of pure villainy, for what could I do to him?  I have been a good friend to the English.  Sir, pursue that man:  he must be a Frenchman.  I will give you a quarter, nay, a third of my goods, if you recover them.”

“That is impossible, Khwaja.  I’ve only twenty men on foot:  what is the use of pursuing fifty on horseback?  Your friendship for the British has come, I fear, a little too late.”

The Armenian wrung his hands in despair, whining that he was a ruined man.  Then his tone changed; was there not still a chance?  He explained that, a few hours before his capture, he had met a man who had recognized him as the agent for Mr. Merriman.  The man said that he was a servant of Surendra Nath Chuckerbutti and was on his way to meet Clive Sahib, carrying a letter to him from his master.  But he was worn out, having come on foot a day and a night without rest.  Coja Solomon unblushingly confessed that, while the man slept at midday, he had taken the letter from him and read it.

“Why did you do that?”

“I thought it would be safer with me, for every one knows—­”

“Yes, that’ll do, Khwaja; go on with your story.”

“The letter was written at Malda, a village on the other side of the river, and the writer, Surendra Nath, informed Mr. Clive that the wife and daughter of Mr. Merriman were in his house there, and asked him to send a party to bring them away.  Naturally, sir, I was pleased to find—­”

“Go on with your story,” cried Desmond impatiently, all excitement at coming upon the track of the ladies at last.

“It was while I was reading the letter that the horsemen came up.  The risaldar took it from me, read it, and questioned me.  His face changed.  He smiled evilly, and from the questions he asked me, and from what I heard him say to his followers, he has gone to Malda, with a design to take these ladies.”