CHAPTER XXIII
The following morning, as soon as General Beamish had returned from his drive, he despatched a messenger to summon his new acquaintance; who on this occasion was received in the drawing-room—a curious apartment! The walls coloured a sickly pink, were decorated with horns and heads, fine damascened arms, various spotty sporting prints, and many faded photographs in shabby Oxford frames. After a little desultory talk, the venerable officer fixing his steely blue eyes on the visitor, said:
"Young man, you gave me a deal of information yesterday, but begad, you never told me what has brought you to Wellunga?"
"Oh, that is too long a story, sir, and would only bore you to death."
"Bore away, and fire away! I really want to hear it!"
Mallender, who was now disinclined to disclose his mission, began the recital with obvious reluctance, and made it as brief as possible, whilst the old man, with a hand to his ear, listened eagerly to the outline of his many failures; when he concluded, he said:
"I remember meeting your Uncle in the Ooty Club, and hearing him say how he hated India! I suppose it has stuck in my gizzard, because I felt vexed—you see I always loved the country, and I can sympathise with the old Mem Sahib, who hankered after 'the whiff of a huka, and the smell of a bazaar.' I took to the East from the moment I put a foot in it, and felt the sun on my back, and saw the palms, and the Arab horses—it was all Arabs in my time! It's funny, how clearly I recall things of fifty years ago, yet cannot for the life of me tell you what happened last week," he concluded, with a hopeless sigh.
"Then you remember my Uncle's disappearance?"
"Why, of course. I read all about it in the papers."
"Has it ever occurred to you that he might still be alive?"