When the meal was over, and the newspaper had been ceremoniously removed, he drew a candle towards him and proceeded to re-read the letter of instructions, which had been duly delivered at the Madras hotel:
"Dear Sir,
"We have now the pleasure to forward by hand the information as required. Your gentleman, Major Smith, lives at Panjeverram where he owns a large bungalow, called the Nabob's House, and lives in great secrecy. The place is surrounded by high walls, and entered by a heavy wooden gate. Major Smith's affairs are managed by old servants, who cannot be bribed; he is rarely seen, sometimes not for years, but he is in Panjeverram now. He receives no visitors or letters, no more than if he was defunct. We believe that he is your man, and hope we are correct. We should add, that you will find it prudent to be on the spot, and that to gain admittance will be difficult; it may take weeks, or even months."
Mallender's heart sank. Months!—in this squalid bungalow, the resort of toddy cats, bats, and snakes.
"Perseverance must be rewarded," the letter continued. "If your servants can make friends with Major Smith's servants, it will be the thin edge of the wedge, but you must push, push, push."
Having folded up this epistle, Mallender lit a cigar, and went out to pace the verandah, forgetful and regardless of reptiles, till he trod upon the dead snake, and uttering a word which begins and ends with "D," he kicked the limp body into the bushes, whereupon Anthony, who had been summoned, and stood at the doorway at attention, was moved to say:
"Master taking care, and never walking out of light. Other snake always coming, to look for lover!"
"Hang the snakes' lovers!" cried his master impatiently. "I called you to say, that I am likely to be here for some time, and you must send a coolie to Madras early to-morrow, to fetch stores, and other things from Oakes and Spencer's."
"Chinna-Sawmy can go," replied Smiler with an air of superb importance. "I can spare him, plenty things wanted. To-day all hurry and hurly-burly, no time to arrange. Nothing here, no filter, no charcoal, no matches, no cocoanut oil, no—" spreading out his hands, "anything—but one old fool man."
"There is a bazaar, I presume?"