Yasmini opened on him in his own language, because there was just a chance that otherwise Tess might overhear through the open window and put two and two together.

“Scullion!  Dish-breaker!  Conveyor of uncleanness!  You have a son?”

“Truly, heavenborn.  One son, who grows into a man—­the treasure of my old heart.”

“A gambler!”

“A young man, heavenborn, who feels his manhood—­now and then gay—­now and then foolish "

“A budmash!” (Bad rascal.)

“Nay, an honest one!”

“Who borrowed from Mukhum Dass the money-lender, making untrue promises?”

“Nay, the money was to pay a debt.”

“A gambling debt, and he lied about it.”

“Nay, truly, heavenborn, he but promised Mukhum Dass he would repay the sum with interest.”

“Swearing he would buy with the money, two horses which Mukhum Dass might seize as forfeit after the appointed time!”

“Otherwise, heavenborn, Mukhum Dass would not have lent the money!”

“And now Mukhum Dass threatens prison?”

“Truly, heavenborn.  The money-lender is without shame—­without mercy—­ without conscience.”

“And that is why you—­dog of a spying butler set to betray the sahib’s salt you eat—­man of smiles and welcome words!—­stole money from me?  Was it to pay the debt of thy gambling brat-born-in-a-stable?”

“I, heavenborn?  I steal from thee?  I would rather be beaten!”

“Thou shalt be beaten, and worse, thou and thy son!  Feel in his cummerbund, Tom Tripe!  I saw where the money went!”

Promptly into the butler’s sash behind went fingers used to delving into more unmilitary improprieties than any ten civilians could think of.  Tripe produced the thousand-rupee note in less than half a minute and, whether or not he believed it stolen, saw through the plan and laughed.

“Is my name on the back of it?” Yasmini asked.

Tom Tripe displayed the signature, and Chamu’s clammy face turned ashen-gray.

“And,” said Yasmini, fixing Chamu with angry blue eyes, “the commissioner sahib is on the veranda!  For the reputation of the English he would cause an example to be made of servants who steal from guests in the house of foreigners.”

Chamu capitulated utterly, and wept.

“What shall I do?  What shall I do?” he demanded.

“In the jail,” Yasmini said slowly, “you could not spy on my doings, nor report my sayings.”

“Heavenborn, I am dumb!  Only take back the money and I am dumb forever, never seeing or having seen or heard either you or this sahib here!  Take back the money!”

But Yasmini was not so easily balked of her intention.

“Put his thumb-print on it, Tom Tripe, and see that he writes his name.”

The trembling Chamu was led into a room where an ink-pot stood open on a desk, and watched narrowly while he made a thumb-mark and scratched a signature.  Then: