MUSTAD.

The East Indian who stood before Jack Everson, thoroughly cowed and
submissive, was unusually tall, dark, and thin to emaciation. He wore
a turban, a light linen jacket which encompassed his chest to below the
waist, with a sash or girdle, loose flapping trousers and sandals. In
the girdle at his waist was a long, formidable knife or yataghan, which
he would have been glad to bury in the heart of the man who had thus
brought him to his knees.

When Jack Everson demanded to know his identity the fellow replied in a
low voice that was not lacking in a certain musical quality:

"Mustad!"

The young man half expected the answer.

"What business brings you here?"

"He is my master; I work for him. I have been to see my aged mother,
who is very ill. I have just returned to serve my master."

"That is not true! You went away to bring some of your people to kill
the doctor and his family."

"Sahib does Mustad great wrong," replied that individual in a grieved
voice. "I love my master and my mistress. I am not ungrateful. I
would give my life sooner than harm a hair of their heads. Where have
they gone?"