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Updated: May 7, 2025
Somehow the lights went out. Amber started to fight his way out. As he struggled on, making little headway through the press, a hand grasped his arm and drew him another way. "Make haste, hazoor!" cried the owner of the hand, in Hindustani. "Make haste, lest they seek to fasten this crime upon your head." Both hand and voice might well have been Labertouche's; Amber believed they were.
"To you, likewise, greeting, Amber Sahib." "What!" Rutton swung sharply to Amber with an exclamation of amazement. "You know this fellow, David?" The babu cut in hastily, stimulated by a pressing anxiety to clear himself. "Hazoor, I did but err, being misled by his knowledge of our tongue as well as by that pale look of you he wears.
There came a soft shuffle of feet on the stones behind him, and the stunted, white-clad figure of Dulla Dad stood at his side, making respectful obeisance. "Hazoor!" "You damned spying scoundrel!" Amber cried, enraged. "You've been waiting there by the window, listening!" "Hazoor," the native quavered in fright, "it was cold upon the water and you kept me waiting over-long.
"Hazoor, that is for your secret ear." The babu drew himself up, assuming a certain dignity. "It is not meet that the message of the Bell should be uttered in the hearing of an Englishwoman, hazoor." "What are you drivelling about?" In his blank wonder, Amber returned to English as to a tongue more suited to his urgent need of forcible expression.
"In the matter of a certain photograph, hazoor." "By thunder!" Labertouche's name was on Amber's lips, but he repressed it. "Wait a bit." He gulped down the last dregs of sleep. "Let me think and see." This last was an afterthought. As it came to him he dropped the pistol by his side and felt for matches in the pocket of his coat, which hung over the back of a bedside chair.
By now the voice of the chase had subsided to a dull and distant muttering far behind them, and the way was clear. Beyond its age-old, ineradicable atmosphere of secret infamy there was nothing threatening in the aspect of the neighbourhood. And the Gurkha pulled up, breathing like a wind-broken horse. "Easily, hazoor!" he gasped. "There is time for rest."
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