At the farthest end, stood an imposing red-tiled bungalow; between this and the gate was a garden, a well, and a tennis-court—where two boys were playing. Mallender saw no more, as the postern was suddenly darkened by a large turbaned figure. This presumably was Francis, looking alarmingly fierce, and majestic, who stepping into the road, closed the postern behind him with stern significance.
"Photographs—no," waving a beringed hand; "we do not want them, this private house only—please not to trouble, and to go away."
The fiat seemed irrevocable, and Geoffrey's hopes sank to zero, when as Francis reopened the door a child's golden head was thrust out, and she called in a shrill voice:
"Francis, why you make all this bobbery? We are going to be done and I say so!"
"You go back, missy," he answered angrily. "Naughty girl,—you go back."
"Yes, we must, we must!" she screamed. The petition was supported by shouts, and a far-away female voice was heard in shrill expostulation. Then the door was violently slammed, and the scene in every sense closed.
As the defeated schemers were moving slowly homeward, a servant came panting behind them.
"You are to come," he called out, breathlessly. "The Miss has given permission."
When the impostor and his satellite crossed the vast enclosure, he noticed fine horses picketed in the open stables, Nellore cows, and a motor; also flocks of pigeons, a luxuriant well-watered garden, with patches of luscious green lucerne, and trees of guava, pomegranate, and bananas.
In the verandah were two lads, nearly as dark as Chinna-Sawmy, with sleek black hair, and beaming eager faces. There was also a little girl with clouds of golden locks, and singularly arresting beauty, a prim elderly European woman with a long upper lip, and a flat figure encased in a stiff print gown, and Black Francis—a mute, hostile, presence. Besides this group on the verandah, there was also a large collection of retainers, who were apparently not entitled to a footing in the house.