“Are you sure it was from Yunnan?”

“That’s what they told me,” said Grantham.  “Since then I have heard that he was on his way from Pekin to Burmah, and that his coolies had robbed him of all he possessed.”

“You don’t happen to remember his name, I suppose!”

The blind man tried to ask the question calmly, but his voice failed him.

“As far as I remember his name was George Bertram,” Grantham answered.

There was a pause for a few seconds, after which the blind man began again—­

“He didn’t tell you, I suppose, whether he had any money about him?”

“He hadn’t a red cent,” said Grantham.  “The Chinese cleared him out.  They lent him the money to get to Rangoon.  I happen to know that because he cashed my friend’s cheque in Bhamo.”

There was another and somewhat longer pause.

“You did not hear whether he had any precious stones in his possession?”

“Good gracious, no!  From what they told me I gathered that the man hadn’t a halfpenny in the world.  Why should he have been likely to have had jewels?  In point of fact I’m sure he hadn’t, for I was given to understand he was about as woe-begone a customer as could be found anywhere.”

The blind man uttered a heavy sigh, and sank back to his former position upon the ground.

An hour and a half later, just as the shadows of evening were drawing in, a party of Sikhs put in an appearance, bringing with them a dhooly, in which they placed the injured man.  It was almost dark when they reached the station, where Grantham’s superior officer was awaiting their coming.

“What on earth’s the meaning of this?” he asked, as the cortege drew up before the bungalow.  “Who are these men?  And where did you find them?”

Grantham made his report, and then the wounded man was lifted out and carried to a hut at the rear of the main block of buildings.  The little man watched everything with an eagle eye, as if he were afraid some evil might be practised upon his companion.  When the blind man had been placed on a bed, and his foot attended to as well as the rough surgery of the place would admit, Grantham did something he had not already done, and that was to ask them their names.

“My name is Kitwater,” said the blind man, “and the name of my friend here is Codd—­Septimus Codd.  He’s one of the best and staunchest little fellows in the world.  I don’t know whether our names will convey much to you, but such as they are you are welcome to them.  As a matter of fact, they are all we have with which to requite your hospitality.”

Why it should have been so I cannot say, but it was evident from the first that Captain Handiman did not believe the account the refugees gave of themselves.  He was one of that peculiar description of persons who have an idea that it adds to their dignity not to believe anything that is told them, and he certainly acted up to it on every possible occasion.