A DARK SCHEMER
villages, and the outer and the inner quadrangles help the ventilation of rooms, so essential in the hot climate of India.
Gokul Das was a widower and had only one boy. Most men of his position would have married again, but Gokul Das's soul was in the aggrandisement of Debipur House, and, to do the faithful servant justice, he had no thought and no ambition apart from it. Some poor relations cooked his meals and looked after his comforts, and found shelter and food in his house according to the kindly custom of the East. The outer brick-built room was his own; none ventured to enter there, none molested him in the hours he spent there with his papers or with his informers.
To-night an oil lamp was burning in that room, and two men sat there. Their faces in the dim light of the lamp would have been a study for painters.
Nobo Kumar had long passed his fiftieth year, but there was not a grey hair on his head. His strong face still glowed with the fire of youth, and his penetrating eyes showed the determination of a man. His frame was still strong and robust, and his hard-set features indicated dark passions. Nobo Kumar had come to consult Gokul Das in his own house at midnight, because the Zemindari House was too crowded for secret conference.
The face of Gokul Das was a contrast to that of his master. He was about the same age, but looked ten years older, and almost decrepit with age. His wrinkled face was an enigma, it never changed, and never betrayed the thoughts that lay deep within him. His eyes were small, and his hair was grey.
39
