He seemed a little the worse for drink,
but not too drunk to recognize the real Yasmini when he saw her and
to blush crimson for having acted like an idiot.
"Queen of the Night!" he said in Hindustani that was peculiarly
mispronounced.
"_Box-wallah!_" she answered under her breath; but she smiled
at him, and aloud she said, "Will the sahib honor us all by being
seated?"
A maid took charge of the man at once, and led him to a seat not far
from the middle of the room. Yasmini, whose eyes were on Ranjoor
Singh every other second, noticed that the Sikh, having summed up the
European, had already lost all interest.
But there, were other footsteps. The curtain parted again to admit a
second European, a somewhat older man, who glanced back over his
shoulder deferentially and, to Yasmini's unerring eye, tried to carry
off prudish timidity with an air of knowingness.
"Who is he?" demanded Ranjoor Singh; and Yasmini rattled the
bracelets on her ankles loud enough to hide a whisper.
"An agent," she answered. "He has an office here in Delhi. The first
man is his clerk, who is supposed to be the leader into mischief;
they have made him a little drunk lest he understand too much. I have
sent a maid to him that he may understand even less."
The second man was closely followed by a third, and Yasmini
smothered a squeal of excitement, for she saw that Ranjoor Singh's
eyes were ablaze at last and that he had sat bolt upright without
knowing it.
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