We both naturally turned half round to look at the weapon he spoke of, which was the central piece in a trophy of jewelled sabres and Afghan knives.

“Yes,” said Isaacs, turning back to answer his guest, “it is a ——­” He stopped, and I, who had not seen the weapon before, lost among so many, and was admiring its singular beauty, turned too; to my astonishment I saw that Isaacs was gazing into empty space.  The divan where Ram Lal had been sitting an instant before, was vacant.  He was gone.

“That is rather sudden,” I said.

“More so than usual,” was the reply.  “Did you see him go?  Did he go out by the door?”

“Not I,” I answered, “when I looked round at the wall he was placidly sitting on that divan pointing with one hand at the yataghan.  Does he generally go so quickly?”

“Yes, more or less.  Now I will show you some pretty sport.”  He rose to his feet and went to the door.  “Narain!” he cried.  Narain, the bearer, who was squatting against the door-post outside, sprang up and stood before his master.  “Narain, why did you not show that pundit the way downstairs?  What do you mean? have you no manners?”

Narain stood open mouthed.  “What pundit, sahib?” he asked.

“Why, the pundit who came a quarter of an hour ago, you donkey!  He has just gone out, and you did not even get up and make a salaam, you impertinent vagabond!” Narain protested that no pundit, or sahib, or any one else, had passed the threshold since Ram Lal had entered.  “Ha! you budmash.  You lazy dog of a Hindoo! you have been asleep again, you swine, you son of a pig, you father of piglings!  Is that the way you do your work in my service?” Isaacs was enjoying the joke in a quiet way immensely.

“Sahib,” said the trembling Narain, apparently forgetting the genealogy his master had thrust upon him, “Sahib, you are protector of the poor, you are my father and my mother, and my brother, and all my relations,” the common form of Hindoo supplication, “but, Sri Krishnaji! by the blessed Krishna, I have not slept a wink.”

“Then I suppose you mean me to believe that the pundit went through the ceiling, or is hidden under the cushions.  Swear not by your false idols, slave; I shall not believe you for that, you dog of an unbeliever, you soor-be-iman, you swine without faith!”

“Han, sahib, han!” cried Narain, seizing at the idea that the pundit had disappeared mysteriously through the walls.  “Yes, sahib, the pundit is a great yogi, and has made the winds carry him off.”  The fellow thought this was a bright idea, not by any means beneath consideration.  Isaacs appeared somewhat pacified.