As he crouched in the darkness something cold suddenly touched his face, and the next moment a clamour of excited yappings and joyful barks arose, as something warm and furry and cold and slobbery flung itself all over him.
Tumbu! It could be nothing but blundering, bumbling Tumbu! He made one useless effort to still the dog, then rose to his feet feeling himself discovered, prepared to run for it.

But it was too late.

A sentry, lantern in hand, roused by the commotion, barred the way.

All seemed lost, but a ray of hope shone when the familiar voice of the Afghan sentry, the unrepentant turncoat, was heard as the lantern waved in Roy's very face.
"By my word, one of the Kings! How come you hither at this time o' night, friend ?" The voice was a little thick, as if the owner, finding the quiet of the Delhi Gate wearisome, had sought amusement in a skin of wine.
Roy gave a gasp--he was too confused for thought.

"The dog--" he began.
"Aye! The dog that was yours and is mine," jeered the sentry.