“Sahib does Mustad great wrong,” replied that individual in a grieved voice.  “I love my master and my mistress.  I am not ungrateful.  I would give my life sooner than harm a hair of their heads.  Where have they gone?”

It was the last question that removed all lingering doubt of the native’s treachery.  He had returned to bring about their overthrow, but knew not where to look for them.  When he could ascertain whither they had fled he and his brother miscreants would be at their heels.

“Suppose I should tell you that they had gone to Meerut or Delhi?”

“Allah be praised!” exclaimed the other devoutly; “for then they will be safe.”

“Is there no trouble in Meerut or Delhi?”

“What trouble can there be!” asked Mustad, with well-feigned simplicity.  “It is in those cities that the missionaries and many of the Inglese live.  They have lived there many years.  What harm could befall them?”

By this time Jack Everson had lost all doubt of the perfidy of the man.  He could not fail to know what had taken place within the preceding twenty-four hours in the cities named, and he lacked his usual cunning when he tried to deceive his questioner.

The young man saw that it was a waste of time to question Mustad.  No reliance could be placed on anything he said.

“You will wait here, then, until Dr. Marlowe comes back?”

Mustad vigorously nodded his head and replied: 

“I shall wait, and my eyes will be filled with tears until I see the good man and his child again.  When will they come to their home?”

“Well, the best thing you can do is to wait here until you see them again.”

As Jack made this remark he took a quick step forward and picked up the revolver.  He did not pause to examine it, but was sure that none of the chambers had been discharged.  Slipping the weapon into his coat pocket, and still grasping his own, he said: 

“I think I shall go out on the veranda and await the return of the doctor.”

As he made this remark he committed a mistake for which there was no excuse.  Instead of backing out of the room he turned about and started through the open door into the hall.  The walking cane against which he had once struck his foot still lay where he had kicked it, and he tripped over it a second time.  The mishap, slight as it was, saved his life.  As he stumbled in the gloom something whizzed like the rush of a cobra’s head past his temple, nipping his hat and striking the opposite wall with force enough to kill two or three men.  It was the yataghan of Mustad, who had drawn and hurled it with inconceivable quickness and with an aim so unerring that it would have brained the unsuspecting American but for his fortunate stumble.