“You speak of Calcutta; are you a Hindoo, Mr. Mirrikh?”
“No, sir.”
“Pardon me. You can scarcely be a Cambodian or Siamese. Persian, perhaps?”
“Neither one nor the other, sir. We will let that matter pass.”
Maurice turned slightly red. The dear fellow never could endure rebuff.
“Do you smoke?” he asked, producing his cigar case.
“Seldom, and I do not care to smoke now. Pardon me, Mr. De Veber, if I have given offense. I can assure you”
“In refusing my vile cheroots, sir? Indeed no.”
“No, no; not that. In declining to disclose my nationality. Believe me the best of reasons exist why I should keep my secret. To all intents and purposes I am a citizen of Benares. I have resided there ‘off and on,’ as you Americans say, for some years.”
“No explanation is necessary, sir,” replied Maurice, lightly. “My question was an impertinent one, but you know I must maintain my reputation for Yankee curiosity. But to change the subject; when did you arrive at Angkor? We have been here four days and, but for the priests, thought we had the ruins to ourselves.”
“I arrived this morning, Mr. De Veber,” he answered, the curious shadow which passed over his face telling me that Maurice was treading on dangerous ground again.
“This morning! Why there was no party in this morning before we left. You could hardly have come up the lake, for I am expecting some one on the next boat due. Possibly you came over from Siamrap?”
“Mr. De Veber, I came from a different direction entirely.”
“Indeed! May I ask from where?”
“Yankee curiosity again?” he laughed. “Really it is too bad, but I am forced to disappoint you. My movements cannot possibly concern you. I prefer not to tell from which direction I came.”
It was too much for Maurice.
Biting his lip he moved toward the balustrade and remained looking down upon the temple roof below.
Scarcely was his back turned when Mr. Mirrikh—I adopt the name he gave us—moved to my side and drew me back toward the door.
