Her face was outlined against the white pillar beside which she sat, and with all the languor of sickness on it still showed strong in its entreaty. Something in it struck George with regret, even amid the pressing desire to kick somebody which her words had roused in him. 'Give it back,' he echoed savagely. 'Of course I would, if I could; but I can't. It was stolen----' 'It has been found again, Huzoor.' 'Perhaps; but I haven't found it. I'm very sorry, my good girl, but I haven't got it.' 'The Huzoor mistakes. He has it. It is in the parcel that came from the palace. They took it from me again to send it back to the mem.' George stared at her, unable to believe his ears. 'Took it again then you were the thief--is that it?' There was a slight pause ere she replied. 'The Huzoor always speaks the truth. I stole it--but it was mine.' George gave a low whistle; then a sudden grimness came to his face. 'And you say it is in that parcel they sent addressed---- By Jove, if it is,' he added in English as he rose hastily. A minute after, when he returned from within, his face was still more grim. 'Here! take it,' he said, thrusting the blue curves of the Ayôdhya pot at her, as if in haste to be rid of it--and her. 'When I get back I'll inquire, and if what you say is true----' He paused, reduced in his anger to thinking incoherently of Dalel Beg and horsewhips. How dare he send it to her, mixing her up, as it were, in such a discreditable affair? 'Well,' he continued, looking impatiently at the girl, 'that's all, I suppose. You don't want anything more, do you?' The attitude in which she was sitting reminded him perforce of the sunshine glowing on the blue-tiled mosque and of the sidling pigeons--of a past, in short, of which he did not care to be reminded, and a hardness crept over his face. 'That is all,' she replied, rising to go. 'But the Huzoor should not be angry. The pot belonged to this slave.' 'Angry?' he echoed, with a sort of lofty consideration. 'Why should I be angry with you? Every one has a right to their own surely. Now you have got it, go home and get stronger, my child. Salaam, Azîzan!' 'Salaam Alaikoom, Huzoor.' He took up his cigar again, relieved to find it alight; for he felt that he needed soothing. On his return, Dalel must be brought to book and smashed; meanwhile he was not sorry that the cursed pot had finally passed into the hands of its rightful owner, for it had a knack of appearing and disappearing in a way which annoyed his common-sense. Now, he need never see it or its owner again. One palpable reason for the latter probability made him give a compassionate glance after the thin, small face where consumption had set its mark indubitably, and which he had seen for the last time.