Whenever she turned a corner in the crowded maze of streets, he would spur on in a hurry until she was in sight again, and then his handsome, swarthy face would light with pleasure--wicked pleasure--self-assertive, certain, cruel.

He would rein in again to let her draw once more ahead.
Rosemary McClean knew quite well who was following her, and knew, too, that she could do nothing to prevent him.

Once, as she passed a species of caravansary--low-roofed, divided into many lockable partitions, and packed tight with babbling humanity--she caught sight of a pair of long, black thigh boots, silver-spurred, and of a polished scabbard that moved spasmodically, as though its owner were impatient.
"Mahommed Gunga!" she muttered to herself.

"I wonder whether he would come to my assistance if I needed him.

He fought once--or so he says--for the British; he might be loyal still.