'Let's think it out somewhere else,' I said.
'Excellent idea! Turn the lamps out. We'll get into my room.'
I did not turn the lamps out. I went into Strickland's room first, and allowed him to make the darkness. Then he followed me, and we lit tobacco and thought. Strickland thought. I smoked furiously, because I was afraid.
'Imray is back,' said Strickland. 'The question is—who killed Imray? Don't talk, I've a notion of my own. When I took this bungalow I took over most of Imray's servants. Imray was guileless and inoffensive, wasn't he?'
I agreed; though the heap under the cloth had looked neither one thing nor the other.
'If I call in all the servants they will stand fast in a crowd and lie like Aryans. What do you suggest?'
'Call 'em in one by one,' I said.
'They'll run away and give the news to all their fellows,' said Strickland. 'We must segregate 'em. Do you suppose your servant knows anything about it?'
'He may, for aught I know; but I don't think it's likely. He has only been here two or three days,' I answered. 'What's your notion?'
'I can't quite tell. How the dickens did the man get the wrong side of the ceiling-cloth?'
There was a heavy coughing outside Strickland's bedroom door. This showed that Bahadur Khan, his body-servant, had waked from sleep and wished to put Strickland to bed.
'Come in,' said Strickland. 'It's a very warm night, isn't it?'
Bahadur Khan, a great, green-turbaned, six-foot Mahomedan, said that it was a very warm night; but that there was more rain pending, which, by his Honour's favour, would bring relief to the country.
