Hartley was dining out, “dining at the Wilders’,” he said casually, and he further informed Coryndon that Mrs. Wilder had asked him to bring his friend, but no amount of persuasion could induce Coryndon to forgo an evening by himself.  He pointed out to Hartley that he never went into society, and that he found it a strain on his mind when he required to think anything through, and, with a greater show of reluctance than he really felt, Hartley conceded to his wish, and Coryndon sat down to a solitary meal.  He ate very sparingly and drank plain soda water, and whilst he sat at the table his long, yellow-white fingers played on the cloth, and his eyes followed the swaying punkah mat with an odd, intense light in their inscrutable depths.

He had made Hartley understand that he never talked over a case, and that he followed it out entirely according to his own ideas, and Hartley honestly respected his reserve, making no effort to break it.

“When the hands are full, something falls to the ground and is lost,” Coryndon murmured to himself as he got up and went to his room.  “Shiraz,” he called, “Shiraz,” and the servant sprang like a shadow from the darkness in response to his master’s summons.

“To-night I go out.”  Coryndon waved his hand.  “To-morrow I go out, and of the third day—­I cannot tell.  Let it be known to the servant people that, like all travelling Sahibs, I wish to see the evil of the great city.  I may return with the morning, but it may be that I shall be late.”

“Inshallah, Huzoor,” murmured Shiraz, bowing his head, “what is the will of the Master?”

“A rich man is marked among his kind; where he goes the eyes of all men turn to follow his steps, but the poor man is as a grain of sand in the dust-storm of a Northern Province.  Great are the blessings of the humble and needy of the earth, for like the wind in its passing, they are invisible to the eyes of men.”

Shiraz made no response; he lowered the green chicks outside the doors and windows, and opened a small box, battered with age and wear.

“The servant’s box is permitted to remain in the room of the Lord Sahib,” he said with a low chuckle.  “When asked of my effrontery in this matter, I reply that the Lord Sahib is ignorant, that he minds not the dignity of his condition, and behold, it is never touched, though the leathern box of the Master has been carefully searched by Babu, the butler of Hartley Sahib, who knows all that lies folded therein.”

While he spoke he was busy unwrapping a collection of senah bundles, which he took out from beneath a roll of dusters and miscellaneous rubbish, carefully placed on the top.  The box had no lock and was merely fastened with a bit of thick string, tied into a series of cunning knots.