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MOTION PICTURE
sponded, gliding in from the service quarters. “Excellency wish ?” he bowed.
The Colonel continued to roar out questions in the native tongue which the man answered readily. Yes, if the Sahib pleased, he had seen someone outside the bungalow, a woman with golden hair that glittered like the moon. She seemed to be watching someone inside, “gone now” — he finished cheerfully.
“Hair like the moon,’’ the Colonel repeated thoughtfully, “sounds like Sarissa, the new dancing girl at the Cafe Jumna. Come to think of it, this poor fellow here seemed smitten with her ; saw them on the parade walk several times together. Woman scorned, eh? If you listen, you can almost always hear the rustle of a petticoat whenever there’s a shooting affair.”
Robert Kent nodded. “Let’s get someone to help with poor Wyndham here, and tomorrow evening we’ll go to the Cafe Jumna and have a look at the girl.”
The Cafe Jumna swarmed with the various and colorful life of the East. Tourists and rich merchants with gold collars round their fat suety necks, veiled women, soldiers and native princes wearing the sign of their purity of caste in the twisting of their turbans, European women in gowns that slipped from white polished shoulders, drinking spiced wine with swarthy Hindu officers, and everywhere beggars displaying their loathsome wares of twisted limb or hideous sore to the patrons of the place, whining out their pleas above the shrilling of stringed instruments.
At a table in the corner Kent, still in his rajah make-up, but more subtly colored in accord with Wyndham’s suggestion, sat watching the cosmopolitan throngs while Colonel Wentworth busied himself with mixing an English cocktail and sputtering out orders and abuse at the waiter in abominable Hindustani. As he lifted his glass to test his workmanship, he uttered an exclamation and nudged his companion. “Graves! Alone, too — wonder who he’s waiting for!
In the lambent golden light she seemed to float as tho in some ethereal fluid, and Kent looked at Captain Graves curiously and saw in his face all her beauty reflected
pane of glass thru which the silencing bullet had come tinkled in the stark stillness to the floor. With an exclamation, Kent knelt by the crumpled figure but rose after a moment, very white. His throat felt dry, and there was the evil taste of powder in his mouth. He had been thru the war and seen many men die, but not in this way, murdered. “He expected it,” Kent muttered, sickly, “and he died with the name of his slayer on his lips. Whoever shot him must have been hiding
outside and watching him thru the window ”
He uttered an exclamation and rushed to the door, just as it was jerked open by Colonel Wentworth himself. “What’s happened?” the Colonel gasped, “I heard something — sounded like a shot — oh, by Jove!” He stared down at the out-flung figure, and then at Kent with a question in his eyes.
The Secret Service man nodded, “Yes, dead ! Shot thru that window there from the darkness.”
Wentworth raised a bellow to which a native servant re
(Fifty-s-ix)