After vain efforts to regain his sleep, he at length rose and went on
deck. He did not move with intentional quietness, but he was barefoot,
and his steps made no sound. It was a black night, a warm haze almost
shutting out the stars. As he reached the deck he heard low murmurs from
a point somewhere aft. He had no idea what the time was: Shaik Mahomet
had the water clock, with which he timed the watches; and Desmond's could
not yet be due. Avoiding the spot where the conversation was in progress,
he leaned over the bulwarks, and gazed idly at the phosphorescent glow
upon the water.
Then he suddenly became aware that the sounds of talking came from near
the wheel, and Fuzl Khan was among the talkers. What made the man so
uncommonly talkative? Seemingly he was taking up the thread where it had
been dropped earlier in the night; what was it about?
Desmond asked himself the question without much interest, and was again
allowing his thoughts to rove when he caught the word "sahib," and then
the word "Firangi" somewhat loudly spoken. Immediately afterwards there
was a low hiss from the Gujarati, as of one warning another to speak
lower. The experiences of the past year had quickened Desmond's wits;
with reason he had become more suspicious than of yore, and the necessity
to be constantly on his guard had made him alert, alive to the least
suggestion.
Why had the speaker been hushed--and by Fuzl Khan? He remembered the ugly
rumors--the veiled hints he had heard about the man in Gheria.
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