“He has no right to forget those days in Calcutta, when we shared our grog with him. No, Joe, we're not good enough for him in these days. She has bewitched him, poor devil. I've stuck to him like a brother for twenty years--both of us have for that matter----” “Like twin brothers,” amended Joseph. “Exactly. We don't forget those old days in Tibet, Turkestan, the Congo, the Sahara----” “I should say we don't! Who is really writing this book of his? Who supplies all the most important facts? Who--who--well, that's all. Who?” “We do, old chap. But you'll find that we shan't have our names on the title-page. She'll see to that. She'll have us shunted off like a couple of deck-hands. Lydia can tell you how much of the material I have supplied. She knows, bless her heart. You furnished a lot, too, Joe, and John Desmond the rest.” “Oh, Jim has done his share.” “I'll admit he has done all of the writing. I don't pose as a literary man.” “Seems to me he's sticking closer to the work than ever before,” mused Riggs. “We ought to finish it by spring, the way we're going now.” “I still say, however, that he ought to put a stop to it.” “Stop to what?” “Her running around with Freddy. What else?” “No harm in it, is there?” “No; I suppose not,” the other reflected. “Still they're pretty young, you know. Besides, she's French.” “So was Joan of Arc,” said his friend in rebuttal. Mr Dawes leaned a little closer. “I wonder how Mrs Desmond likes having her over there playing the piano every afternoon with Freddy, while Lydia's over here copying things for Jim and working her poor little head off. Ever stop to think about that?” “I think about it all the time. And, by thunder, I'm not the only one who does, either. Jim thinks a good deal, and so does Lydia. It's a darned----” Mr Riggs happened to look up at that instant. Ranjab was standing in front of him, his arms folded across his breast, in the habitual pose of the Hindu who waits. The man was dressed in the costume of a high-caste Brahmin; the commonplace garments of the Occident had been laid aside, and in their place were the vivid, dazzling colours of Ind, from the bejewelled sandals to the turban which crowned his swarthy brow and gleamed with rubies and sapphires uncounted. Mr Riggs's mouth remained open as he stared blankly at this ghost of another day. Not since the old days in India had he seen Ranjab in native garb, and even then he was far from being the resplendent creature of to-night, for Ranjab in his home land was a poor man and without distinction. “Am I awake?” exclaimed Mr Riggs in such an awful voice that Mr Dawes gave over staring at the cabinet and favoured him with an impatient kick on the ankle. “I guess that'll wake you up if----” and then he saw the Hindu. “The Ranjab!”