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  Oriental Stories v01n01 - p77.png to depart, what of thy quest, Mahbub? As thou hast said, oh my friend, we twain have talked together with naked hearts; we have eaten salt and broken bread together."

"In the name of Allah returning thanks, thrice!" Mahbub intoned as he drained the last cooling sip from the glass in his hand. "My mouth is dry for straight talk. When the grief of the soul is too heavy for endurance it may be cased by speech. Moreover, the mind of a true man is as a well, the pebble of confession dropped therein sinks and is seen no more. In my chest burns a fire that is like the fires of the Pit itself."

A long space he paused while Trowbridge waited patiently.

"Yet before I tell thee of my quest, oh my brother, oh my friend, bid thy servants of the Thana lock safely away that one whom I brought with me."

Once more Trowbridge's keen eyes darted swiftly over the disreputable form before him.

"It shall be done at once, Mahbub," he said at last.

"Again I give thanks to the Presence," Mahbub said softly when the native constabulary had roughly taken the filthy bundle of rags that sat stupidly on the broad veranda without the Thana and had locked him safely within a cell.

"He is one the Presence urgently desired—it is Kundoo who slew Yar Khan."

"What!" Trowbridge started from his chair in his excitement. After a pause, "So that was your quest, Mahbub, was it? I should have known."

The other nodded.

"There is a reward," Trowbridge began.

"Nay, oh my friend!" protested Mahbub. "The fire burn your money! What do I want with it? I am rich and I thought you were my friend, but behold! you are like all the rest—a sahib. Is a man sad? Give him silver, say the sahibs.