His men lay there heavy with sleep.

There was no sign of Kim or the lama.
'Up!' He stirred a sleeper.

'Whither went those who lay here last even--the lama and the boy?
Is aught missing ?' 'Nay,' grunted the man, 'the old madman rose at second cockcrow saying he would go to Benares, and the young one led him away.' 'The curse of Allah on all unbelievers!' said Mahbub heartily, and climbed into his own stall, growling in his beard.
But it was Kim who had wakened the lama--Kim with one eye laid against a knot-hole in the planking, who had seen the Delhi man's search through the boxes.

This was no common thief that turned over letters, bills, and saddles--no mere burglar who ran a little knife sideways into the soles of Mahbub's slippers, or picked the seams of the saddle-bags so deftly.

At first Kim had been minded to give the alarm--the long-drawn choor--choor! [thief! thief!] that sets the serai ablaze of nights; but he looked more carefully, and, hand on amulet, drew his own conclusions.
'It must be the pedigree of that made-up horse-lie,' said he, 'the thing that I carry to Umballa.