"They died, dear, and so you must be very sorry for him. Think how sad I should be if--" The thought produced a sudden caress, a sudden glisten in her grey eyes. "Now, Boy of mine, let me take that thing off. Then you must go and lie down and sleep, for you'll have to keep wide awake half the night." "Take care of my shword, Mummy, please!" said Boy, superbly, as, in unrobing, he shifted it from one hand to the other; "it's most dweadful sharp!" "By George, it is," remarked Colonel Gould; "a trifle too sharp for safety." "Is it?" said Boy's mother, anxiously. "Hirabul ought not--" "It wasn't Hira," interrupted Boy. "It was Kunder sharped it, so as I could kill Vile John if I met him, like as my Daddy done over in Africa. Didn't you, Kunder?" A figure squatting in a far corner rose and salaamed. "The _Huzoor_ speaks truth." The speaker was an old man, slender, upright, unusually dark-skinned; this latter fact made his bare limbs look curiously youthful and lissom. "Done it uncommonly well, too," assented Colonel Gould, feeling the edge. "Where did you learn the trick?" "Your slave was once sword-sharpener by trade," was the submissive reply. "Kunder'sh an awful clever chap," said Boy, loquaciously. "He can make--oh! all sorts of fings as deads people--bows and stwangles, you know--can't you, Kunder?" The man salaamed, with a watchful look at his other hearers. "And," continued Boy, in vicarious boasting, "he can do all sorts of dweadful fings, too! He can steal people's purses when they'se sleepin', an' make dicky-birds tumble off bwanches, an' little boys like me wake never no more--can't you, Kunder?" Submissiveness grew crafty. "This slave has certainly told such tales to the children-people." "Looks scoundrel enough," remarked Colonel Gould, carelessly. "Where did you pick him up?" "Oh! he isn't _my_ servant," replied Boy's mother. "He is Muriel's. I can't think why she keeps him." The cross-maker rose and held her work at arm's length. "Does any one really know why they do anything?" she asked. "Perhaps, as you say, he will steal my jewels some day--or murder me. But, as Boy says, he's awful clever, and one must be amused! Now I must go and put this up. Will you drive me to the church, Colonel Gould?" "Better come in the victoria with me," said Boy's mother, hastily; "it is going to rain." This other woman, this childless wife with an unspeakable husband, must be guarded from herself. "I don't think so," put in the Colonel, firmly. "Kunder! call my dogcart, and we can go round by my bungalow and pick the _dhatura_." Kunder, passing on his errand, looked up curiously at the last word. Colonel Gould gave back the look. "Queer customer! Shouldn't wonder if he's a Thug--they use _dhatura_ poison to stupefy their victims, you know."