hand to touch him as a
curious suspicion flashed through me.

I touched carpet, cushion, the coverlid. That was all, and hurriedly
creeping to the canvas opening, I found that it hung loose, so that a
man could easily pass through.

While I had been trying to teach my faithful follower the value of an
English gentleman's word, he had glided silently out of the tent,
leaving me to wonder at his skill, and to fasten open the canvas wall,
so as to make it seem as if I had done it for ventilation. But I could
not do that till morning.

To have opened it now was to invite some savage beast of the forest to
enter therein, so I left it as it was, and returned to my couch to
wonder when it was that Dost had gone.

CHAPTER FORTY.

"The tent is cut, my lord," cried Salaman, as I awoke the next morning.

"Fasten it up," I said sharply. "No, no, not close it. Open it so that
I can get air. The tent is too hot."

He looked at me searchingly, and I made an effort to throw him off the
scent by effrontery.

"Well," I said, "do you hear me? Quick, or get somebody else."

He turned sharply and went for help while I congratulated myself on my
power there. For it seemed that in most things I really only had to
order to be implicitly obeyed.

Then, as the tent was pinned open, I wondered whether they would suspect
_me_, and whether the rajah would come that day, not fearing his coming
much, for I felt that I had help now at hand.

The doctor came, and looked quite pleased at my condition. He said it
was a sign that his management of my "terrible" wound, as he called it
now, had been excellent. He little thought of how great an impetus to
my recovery the coming of the dirty old fakir had been. For as soon as
the learned doctor had gone, I went back into my tent, so that I might
indulge in something that had now grown quite strange--that is to say,
as soon as I was quite out of sight, I indulged in a good hearty laugh,
and then revelled in the thought that however bad some of the Hindus
might be, here was one as faithful to his master as man could wish, and
risking his life to come to my help.

Then I laughed again, as I recalled the scene when the ragged-looking
old saint had reviled and cursed and spat at me, thinking, too, of how
wonderfully he had carried out the disguise, and what pain he must have
suffered from his wounds.

Then I began to think more seriously of Dost's risk, for if he were
discovered it