After the charger had been
groomed and fed and hidden, the trooper was to do what might be done
toward securing the risaldar-major's kit; but under no condition was
the kit to have precedence.
"Groom him until he shines! Guard him until I call for him! Keep him
exercised!" was the three-fold order that sang through the trooper's
head and overcame astonishment in the hurry to obey.
Now it was the German's turn to be astonished. Ranjoor Singh strode
in, dressed as a Sikh farmer, and frowned down Yasmini's instant
desire to poke fun at him. The German rose to salute him, and the
Sikh acknowledged the salute with a nod such as royalty might spare
for a menial.
"Come!" he said curtly, and the German followed him out through the
door to the stair-head where so many mirrors were. There Ranjoor
Singh made quite a little play of making sure they were not
overheard, while the German studied his own Mohammedan disguise from
twenty different angles.
"Too much finery!" growled Ranjoor Singh. "I will attend to that.
First, listen! Other than your talk, I have had no proof at all of
you! You are a spy!"
"I am a--"
"You are a spy! All the spies I ever met were liars from the ground
up! I am a patriot. I am working to save my country from a yoke that
is unbearable, and I _must_ deal in subterfuge and treachery if
I would win.
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