Narayan Singh was standing by the end of the table.  He was wiping blood off his bayonet with a piece of newspaper.  He looked cool enough to have carried the paper in his pocket for that purpose.  I got up, feeling ashamed to be seen crouching on the floor.  But Narayan Singh smiled approval.

“You did well, sahib.  All men are equal in the dark.  Until he fired first there was nothing wise to do but hide.”

“How long have you been here?” I asked.

“Five minutes.  I only waited for a sure thrust.  But hah? the sahib feels like a dead man come to life again, eh?  Well I know that feeling!”

The match burned my fingers.  I struck another.  As I did that Grim stood in the doorway, smiling.

“Is he dead?” he asked.

“Surely, sahib.  Shall I go now and get that other one—­that Omar Mahmoud?”

“No need,” said Grim.  “They rounded him up five minutes after he had found Noureddin.”

“Then have I done all that was required of me?”

“No, Narayan Singh.  You haven’t shaken hands with me yet.”

“Thank you, Jimgrim.”

The match went out.  I struck a third one.  Grim turned to me.

“Hungry?”

“Sleepy.”

“Oh, to hell with sleep!  Let’s bring old Scharnhoff into the other room, dig out some eats and drinks, and get a story from him.  All right, Narayan Singh; there’ll be a guard here in ten minutes to take charge of that body.  After that, dismiss.  I’ll report you to Colonel Goodenough for being a damned good soldier.”

“My colonel sahib knew that years ago,” the great Sikh answered quietly.