He felt the whistle of a club that missed him by so little as to make
the skin twitch on the back of his neck.
His right leg shot sidewise, and he tripped a man. In another second
he had the club, and there was no measurable interval of time then
before the darkness was a living miracle of blows that came from
everywhere and missed nothing.
Three men went down, and Ranjoor Singh was in command of a situation
whose wherefore and possibilities he could not guess until an
electric torch declared itself some twenty feet away, at more than
twice his height, and he stood vignetted in a circle of white light.
"The sahib proves a gentle guest!" purred a voice he thought he
recognized. It was a woman's. "Has the sahib a pistol with him?"
Ranjoor Singh, cursing his own neglect of soldierly precaution, saw
fit not to answer. A human arm reached like a snake into the ring of
light. He struck at it with the club, and a groan announced that he
had struck hard enough.
"Does the sahib think that the noise of a pistol would cause his
friends to come? Is Ranjoor Singh ashamed? Speak, sahib! Is it well
to break into a house and be surly with the hostess?"
Ranjoor Singh stepped backward, and the ring of light followed him,
until he stood pressed against the teak door and could feel the heavy
beam that ran up and down it, locked firmly above and below.
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