"No, my dear boy—go on, go on."
"He said he saw him beckoning to him with one hand, whilst he held the other over his eyes—it was always the same dream—he dreamt it many times, and he felt, when he was helpless and dying, that he had made a mistake in not setting this letter aside, and coming straight out here; but, you see, he was in love with my mother, and there was the money, and other things, and so he stayed at home; but the affair preyed on his conscience more and more every year; till at last it became an obsession. Latterly, he could talk of nothing else; he said he was a miserable coward, who had deserted his only brother, and that my mother's death was his punishment; he worked himself up into a fearful state of excitement, and made me swear to undertake a duty in which he had failed."
"But God bless me, Geoffrey! there is this letter in black and white, forbidding any search—as plain as plain can be."
"Yes, but my father thought the letter was a forgery."
"What do Brown and Brown say?"
"They declare the letter to be genuine."
"Ah, and I agree with them! Your father's mind was undoubtedly unhinged by a long illness."
"But mine is not, Cousin Fred. At first, I must confess, I was rather reluctant to come out,—though, of course, I intended to keep my word; but by degrees, when I was all alone at Mallender, the idea grew upon me; I had no dreams, but I had the picture of Uncle Geoffrey always facing me in the dining-room—an oil-painting in uniform, done before he left England—and it seemed to me that he not only took his meals with me, but rode, and walked, and sat with me as well; and I knew I'd never shake off the delusion—if it was a delusion—till I had left no stone unturned out here—and here I am! I see you think I'm crazy? Stark mad. Eh?"
"And have you any plans?" asked his cousin abruptly.
"Not anything very definite. I know that my Uncle or his double is in this Presidency—within about three hundred miles of Madras City."