"Yes, yes, yes," was the irritable response. "Don't you hurry me—don't you hurry me! I'm too old for that! I did the foolish thing my sons dreaded, and married a woman who had nursed my friend, Tom Maitland. After three or four years, the Hills became too smart and fashionable for a retired old Indian, who had married a nurse—my lady neighbours would not know Mrs. Beamish, and the young generation of soldiers had never heard of me. My family plagued me incessantly, and more than once hinted at the effects of a climate on my brain. After all, I was only seventy, and stout and hale, still well able for a day's shooting in the sholahs, or hunting on the downs; so I just disappeared down the Seegoor Ghat, taking all my goods and chattels, and leaving no address. You can cover up tracks when you like,—it is only a question of money."
"You mean bribes?"
"I mean just money. Your Uncle was rich, and thanks to that, he has hidden himself successfully."
"Then you really think he is hidden?" asked Mallender, eagerly.
"Not a doubt of it, and if you will take the advice of an old man, you will waste no more time on searching for a will-o'-the-wisp, but just go home quietly."
"Oh—do you advise that!"
"Yes; though I funked going home myself! but that was different, I had spent the best of my life out here, and the country would not release me. You may think me a queer sort of lunatic, but my case is not uncommon; quite a number of old retired officers, and officials, remain in India after their work is done; they are out of touch with England, and life is easier here. You find them in the Doon, and in parts of the Himalayas, in the Neilgherries, the Shevaroys, and not men alone,—but women too."
"Women?" repeated Mallender, and his tone was incredulous.
"Yes, forty years ago in Bangalore, there was an old lady, the widow of the Colonel of a Madras regiment. I remember her well; she accompanied the 86th M.N.I. in all their moves. She used to ride a venerable white charger, and wear a mushroom hat with rosettes over her ears, and come up on the maidan soon after sunrise, and before the crowd appeared. I've seen her of an evening, driving her little ponies shopping, or at the band,—when it was her band. She never mixed in Society, but went to church, and to field days when her regiment was out. She spent most of her pension on the lines, and the men adored her, and called her their mother; the regiment was her home. Her people, like mine, were scandalized; but, after all, why should not everyone lead the life they prefer—if they do no harm to their fellows? And now about this puzzle, your Uncle—a life here was obviously not one that he preferred, the country had no hold on him, no,—yet he is here. Brown and Co. are not a firm to make foolish mistakes. My advice to you is, to go home, where time, friends, and fortune are all before you."
"Not fortune," protested Geoffrey. "I forfeited that when I undertook this enterprise, but then I was sure that I was dealing with an impostor."