"Yes, sir," said Hokar, calmly. "I spike good Englis. Missionary teach Hokar Englis."
"I'm glad of that; we can have a chat," said Hurd, producing his pipe. He also produced something else with which he had provided himself on the way back from the post-office. In another minute Hokar was staring at a small parcel of coarse brown sugar. With all his Oriental phlegm the man could not keep his countenance. His eyes rolled until they threatened to drop out of his head, and he looked at Hurd with a certain amount of fear. "Goor," said that gentleman, pointing to the sugar with the stem of his pipe, "goor!"
Hokar turned green under his dark skin, and half-rose to go away, but his legs failed him, and he sat still trying to recover himself. "So you worship Bhowanee?" went on his tormentor.
The Indian's face expressed lively curiosity. "The great goddess."
"Yes. Kalee, you know. Did you make Tupounee after you used your roomal on Aaron Norman?"
Hokar gave a guttural cry and gasped. Tupounee is the sacrifice made by the Thugs after a successful crime, and roomal the handkerchief with which they strangled their victims. All this was information culled from Colonel Meadow Taylor's book by the accomplished detective. "Well," said Hurd, smoking placidly, "what have you to say, Mr. Hokar?"
"I know nozzin'," said the man, sullenly, but in deadly fear.
"Yes, you do. Sit still," said Hurd, with sudden sternness. "If you try to run away, I'll have you arrested. Eyes are on you, and you can't take a step without my knowing."
Some of this was Greek to the Indian, owing to his imperfect knowledge of English. But he understood that the law would lay hold of him if he did not obey this Sahib, and so sat still. "I know not anysing," he repeated, his teeth chattering.
"I agree with you," said Hurd; "you are the last of the Mohicans. I want to know why you offered Aaron Norman to Bhowanee?"
Hokar made a strange sign on his forehead at the mention of the sacred name, and muttered something--perhaps a prayer--in his native tongue. Then he looked up. "I know nozzing."
"Don't repeat that rubbish," said Hurd, calmly; "you sold boot laces in the shop in Gwynne Street on the day when its master was killed. And he was the husband of the lady who helped you--Mrs. Krill."