The Brahmin, however, filled with greed and a sly humor, reached his destination in safety.  Naturally cunning, double tongued, sly, ingratiating, after the manner of all Brahmins, who will sink to any base level in order to attain their equivocal ends his actions were unhampered by any sense of treachery toward Umballa.  A Thuggee’s twist to the schemes of the street rat Umballa, who wore the Brahmin string, to which he had no right!  The Brahmin chuckled as he paused at the edge of Bruce’s camp.  A fat purse lay yonder.  He approached, his outward demeanor a mixture of pride and humility.

Bruce had returned but half an hour before, mind weary, bone tired.  He sat with his head in his hands, his elbows propped upon his knees.  His young heart was heavy.  He had searched the bewildering jungle as one might search a plot of grass before one’s door, blade by blade.  A hundred times he had found traces of her; a hundred times he had called out her name, only to be mocked and gibbered at by apes.  She had vanished like a perfume, like a cloud shadow in the wind.

His soul was bitter; for he had built many dreams, and always this fair haired girl had ridden upon them.  So straight she stood, so calm in the eyes, mannered with that gentleness, known of the brave. . . .  Gone, and skilled as he was in jungle lore, he could not find her.

“Sahib, a Brahmin desires audience.”

“Ask him what he wants.”

“It is for the sahib’s ear alone.”

“Ah!  Bring him to me quickly.”

The Brahmin approached, salaamed.

“What do you wish?” Bruce asked curtly.

“A thousand rupees, Huzoor!” blandly.

“And what have you that is worth that many rupees?” irritably.

The Brahmin salaamed again.  “Huzoor, a slave this day was purchased by Durga Ram, Umballa, so-called.  She has skin the color of old tusks, and eyes like turquoise, and lips like the flame of the jungle, and hair like the sands of Ganges, mother of rivers.”

Bruce was upon his feet, alive, eager.  He caught the Brahmin by the arm.

“Is this woman white?” harshly.

“Huzoor, the women of Allaha are always dark of hair.”

“And was sold as a slave?”

“To Durga Ram, the king without a crown, Huzoor.  It is worth a thousand rupees,” smiling.

“Tell me,” said Bruce, stilling the tremor in his voice, “tell me, did she follow him without a struggle?”

“Yes.  But would a struggle have done any good?”

Bruce took out his wallet and counted out a thousand rupees in Bank of India notes.  “Now, listen.  Umballa must not know that I know.  On your head, remember.”

“Huzzor, the word of a Brahmin.”

“Ah, yes; but I have lived long here.  Where is Ali?” cried Bruce, turning to one of his men.

“He went into the city this morning, Sahib, and has not returned.”