WEINER Patel, who had called Mannering a fool and Phiroshah a liar, was dead. The man Phiroshah feared, the man who admitted that he was after the blue diamonds, was no longer a threat. Mannering pondered over this as he had a light breakfast and drank a lot of coffee. Lorna moved about the room, touching this, fiddling with that, trying not to break the train of his thoughts. She had recovered from the shock after Patandi’s death, and was probably resigned to the fact that nothing would take Mannering away. “Like the son of the Maharajah?” Mannering asked her. “I haven’t seen much of him,” said Lorna. “He looks like an immaculate Frenchman with a dark skin. All gallantry, polish and sang-froid. He talks in perfect English to me and in French to Shani.” “Age?” “It’s always difficult to tell. Twenty-three or four, perhaps a year or two older.” “And I suppose they knew each other.
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