g.

Instantly suspicion leaped, keen-edged with anxiety, into his brain. In
a flash his former fears rushed back upon him. They were so horribly
near the native city, so horribly undefended. He remembered the bomb on
the parade-ground, and felt momentarily physically sick.

In another instant he was speeding to the open gate. He turned sharply
in between the cypresses, and was met by a white-clad, cringing figure
that bowed to the earth at his approach.

Noel stopped dead in sheer astonishment. So sudden had been the
apparition that he scarcely restrained himself from running into it.
Then, being in no pacific mood, his astonishment passed into a blaze of
anger.

"What the devil are you sneaking about here for?" he demanded. "What are
you doing?"

The muffled figure before him made another deep salaam. "Heaven-born, I
am but a humble seller of moonstones. Will his gracious excellency be
pleased to behold his servant's wares?"

It was ingratiatingly spoken--the soft answer that should have turned
away wrath; but Noel's tolerance was a minus quantity that night.
Moreover, he had had a severe fright, and his Irish blood was up.

"You may have moonstones," he said, "but you didn't come here to sell
them. The city's full of you infernal _budmashes_. It's a pity you can't
be exterminated like the vermin you are. Be off with you, and if I ever
catch you skulking round here again, I'll give you a leathering that
you'll never forget for the rest of your rascally life!"

The moonstone-seller bowed again profoundly. "Yet even a rat has its
bite," he murmured in a deferential undertone into his beard.

He turned aside, still darkly muttering, and shuffled past Noel towards
the road.

Noel swung round on his heel as he did so, and administered a flying
kick by way of assisting his departure. Possibly it was somewhat more
forcible than he intended; at least it was totally unexpected. The
moonstone-seller stumbled forward with a grunt, barely saving himself
from falling headlong.

A momentary compunction pricked Noel, for the man was obviously old,
and, by the peculiar fashion in which he recovered his balance, he
seemed to be crippled also. But the next moment he was laughing, though
his mood was far from hilarious. For, with an agility as comical as it
was surprising, the moonstone-seller gathered up his impeding garment
and fled.

He was gone like a shadow; the garden lay deserted; Noel's bitterness of
soul returned