I will
go with you. Will you lead the way?"
He knew it was a lie. Valuable papers would not be left in a hut of an
office, and he had already noticed a curiously wrought almara {cabinet}
at one end of the room--just the place to keep documents.
There was the shadow of a scowl on the Armenian's face. The man
hesitated; then walked towards the door: stopped as if at a sudden
recollection; and turned to Desmond with a bland smile.
"I was forgetting," he said, "I brought the papers here for safety's
sake."
He went to the almara, searched for a moment, and handed two papers to
Desmond.
"There, sir," he said, with a quite paternal smile; "you take the
responsibility. In these unfortunate circumstances"--he waved his hand in
the direction of the factory--"it is, believe me, a relief to me to see
the last of these papers.
"That is well."
But Desmond, as he took the papers, felt himself in a quandary. Though he
could speak, he could not read Hindustani! The papers might not be the
dastaks after all. What was he to do?
The peons were not likely to be able to read. He scanned the papers.
There was the name Merriman in English characters, but all the rest was
in native script. The smile hovering on the Armenian's face annoyed
Desmond, and he was still undecided what to do when a voice at his elbow
gave him welcome relief.
"Babu Surendra Nath Chuckerbutti," announced the darwan.
The Babu entered.
"Come and tell me if these are our dastaks," said Desmond.
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