Peshawur did not use it! But 'twas prettily done. Now God he knows how many more there be upon the road who have orders to test me—perhaps with the knife. So it stands that the boy must go to Umballa—and by rail—for the writing is something urgent. I abide here, following the Flower and drinking wine as an Afghan coper should.'
He halted at the stall next his own. His man lay there heavy with sleep. There was no sign of Kim or the lama.
'Up!' He stirred a sleeper. 'Whither went those who lay here last even—the lama and the boy? Is aught missing?'
'Nay,' grunted the man, 'the old madman rose at second cock-crow saying he would go to Benares, and the young one led him away.'
'The curse of Allah on all unbelievers,' said Mahbub heartily, and climbed into his own stall, growling in his beard.
But it was Kim who had wakened the lama—Kim with one eye against a knot-hole in the planking, who had seen the Delhi man's search through the boxes. This was no common thief that turned over letters, bills, and saddles—no mere burglar who ran a little knife sideways into the soles of Mahbub's slippers, or picked the seams of the saddle-bags so deftly. At first Kim had been minded to give the alarm—the long-drawn cho-or!—choor! (thief! thief!) that sets the serai ablaze of nights; but he looked more carefully, and hand on amulet, drew his own conclusions.
'It is the pedigree of that made-up horse-lie,' said he, 'the thing that I carry to Umballa. Better that we go now. Hai! Hai!' in a whisper to the light-sleeping old man. 'Come. It is time time to go to Benares.'
The lama rose obediently, and they passed out of the serai like shadows.
