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Updated: May 7, 2025
Surendra Nath Chuckerbutti glanced anxiously around, as if fearful that the others might understand. But they lay listless on their charpoys; they knew no English, and there was nothing in Desmond's tone to quicken their hopelessness. "No, sahib," said the Bengali; "such escapade, if successful, is beyond my ken. There have been attempts; cui bono? Nobody is an anna the better.
The words caused Desmond to start: they were so unexpected in such a place. The Indian spoke softly and carefully, as if anxious not to awaken his companions. "Yes," replied Desmond. "Who are you?" "My name, sir, is Surendra Nath Chuckerbutti. "How did you get here?" "That, sahib, is a moving tale.
"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 "
"You did well, my friend," whispered Desmond in English to the Babu. "My heart flutters like the wing of a bulbul," answered the Babu; "but I am content, sahib." "But say, Surendra Nath," remarked one of the Maratha captives, "last time you told us that story you said nothing of the golden key."
At first Desmond did not recognize him, but as he drew nearer he saw that it was Surendra Nath himself, looking years older weak, thin, sunken-eyed, little like the sleek, well-fed Babu Desmond had last seen in Calcutta. "Are the ladies safe?" asked Desmond, yards ahead of his men. "Yes, sir, quite safe," replied Surendra Nath, trembling. "Thank God for that!
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