The old schemer sat alone in his favorite den in rear of the shop.

His round, black eyes surveyed complacently his faithful domestics, sleeping on the floor at the threshold of the doors of the four rooms opening into the central hall of his shop.

A single clap of his hands, and these faithful retainers were ready to rise, tulwar in hand, and cut down any intruder.
The old jewel merchant's eye roved over the medley of priceless bric-a-brac in the main hall.

The spoils of temple and olden palace cast grotesque, soft, dark shadows on the floor, under the glimmer of the swinging cresset lamp filled with perfumed nut oil.

Seated cross-legged, and nursing the mouth-piece of his narghileh, Ram Lal pondered long over the sudden appearance of the rehabilitated Major Hawke, and the coming of the rich Mem-Sahib who was to be a hidden bird in the luxurious nest already awaiting its inmate.
Ram Lal was vaguely uneasy, as he glanced at the pretty pavilion in his own compound, where languid loveliness awaited his approach.