I wish it smelt of musk--but it doesn't; it
smells of babu--straight babu, undiluted. Hallo--what's this?"
He began to untwist a corner of the cloth, holding it up to get a
better view of it in the dim light that entered through the window.
He produced a piece of paper that had to be untwisted, too.
"Got a match, sir?"
Kirby struck one.
"It's addressed to 'Colonel Kirby sahib!' Bet you it's from Ranjoor
Singh! Now--d'you suppose that heathen meant to hold on to that until
he could get his price for it?"
"Dunno," said Kirby with indifference, opening the note as fast as
trembling fingers could unfold it. He would not have admitted to
himself what his fingers told so plainly--the extent of his regard
for Ranjoor Singh.
The note was short, and Kirby read it aloud, since it was not marked
private, and there was nothing in it that even the babu might not
have read:
"To Colonel Kirby sahib, from his obedient servant, Risaldar-Major
Ranjoor Singh--Leave of absence being out of question after
declaration of war, will Colonel Kirby sahib please put in Order of
the Day that Risaldar-Major Ranjoor Singh is assigned to special
duty, or words to same effect?"
"Is that all?" asked Warrington.
"That's all," said Kirby.
"Suppose it's a forgery?"
"The ring rather proves it isn't, and I've another way of knowing.
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