"You better put the questions—the interpreter will explain them to Foster."
Chandra Shekhar then asked,
"You said a little before that you have heard the name of Chandra Shekhar—he is no other than myself. Why did you take away—"
"Please stop," interposed Foster, "you need not bother yourself with any question. I am free, as I do not fear death—it depends entirely upon my sweet will whether I shall give any answer to your questions or not; I am determined not to say anything in reply to any of your queries."
"Then bring Shaibalini here," ordered the Nawab to his men.
Shaibalini was accordingly brought in. At first, Foster could not recognise her—she was now lean and emaciated—she had put on a dirty and ragged Shari—her locks were flowing about in a wild manner and had lost their glossy lustre, through utter neglect—there was the smile of madness in her lips, and the vacant looks of insanity in her once-intelligent eyes! Foster shuddered at this sight.
The Nawab asked him, "Do you know her?"
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