A jackal from the far side of the village, in the fields,
raised a tremulous moan.
Sookdee looked into the eyes of Hunsa and he understood. It was the
_tibao_, the happiest augury of success, for it came over the right
shoulder of the victim.
Hunsa, feeling that the moment to strike had come, rose carelessly,
saying: "Give me tobacco."
That was a universal signal amongst thugs, the command to strike.
Even as he uttered the words Hunsa had slipped behind the merchant and
his towel was about the victim's neck. Each man who had been assigned
as a strangler, had pounced upon his individual victim; while Sookdee
stood erect, a knife in his hand, ready to plunge it into the heart of
any one who was likely to overcome his assailant.
Hunsa had thrown the helpless merchant upon his face, and with one knee
between his shoulder-blades had broken the neck; no sound beyond a
gurgling breath of strangulation had passed the Hindu's lips. There
had been no clamour, no outcry; nothing but a few smothered words,
gasps, the scuffle of feet upon the earth; it was like a horrible
nightmare, a fantastic orgy of murderous fiends.
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