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 with Gulabian's tall fur cap bobbing up and down as he made salaam after salaam, and the old nurse acting as a sort of impromptu choir leader.

“Alhamdulillah!” she cried. “Thou hast come back to us, O Aziza Nurmahal, O great soul of my little and worthless soul! Thou hast touched with the flame of thy return the lightless lamp of my sorrow!”

“And thou, O Al Nakia”—turning to Hector and clutching him in a bony embrace—“thou hast blown away the dead leaves that flitted in the wind of my grief! Thou art the sunshine that trickles through the patter of the gray rain. Thou …”

She turned and faced Babu Chandra, who was plucking at her sleeve:

“What is it, O he-goat?”

The Babu overlooked the insult and addressed himself direct to Hector, speaking in that chaos of murdered English slang that, since he was a Babu, was as dear to him as the crimson caste mark on his forehead.

“Saheb!” he said. “Regret to report that Warburton saheb had to leave in regular old whirlwind of a hurry.”

“That so?” asked Hector, who had forgotten all about the American.

“Yes. His daughter has been jolly well copped by no end of jolly, fat old ruffian—right-oh!” said Chandra, with the self-conscious pride and satisfaction peculiar to the bearers of bad tidings.