"Now we are together," resumed his Uncle, "I may as well inform you, that you have provided me with an extraordinary amount of interest and amusement, during this last year."
"How was that?" asked his visitor sharply.
"I pulled all the strings, and you danced beautifully, my good puppet! I had Jaffer in my pay, and of course Shumilal his agent; it was I, who sent you on all those crazy excursions; for instance, to terrify Rochfort, and amuse old Beamish. I remember him thirty years ago: a splendid fellow even then. Poor chap, he still clings like a limpet to an outworn past. You see, I live behind the scenes; it is my rôle in every sense; I am a wire-puller. I have assisted at meetings. I was the writer who sat with his back to you in Shumilal's office, I was next door to you over the wall, when you stayed with Fred; I paid you a visit one night at Panjeverram. This sort of half-light existence, the life of a bat or an owl, is all that is left to me now."
He ceased to speak, evidently expecting his listener to make some remark, but Mallender remained dumb; he was furiously angry with his Uncle, and could not trust himself with words.
"I don't know how long I should have continued to amuse myself at your expense. I intended to pass you on next, to a miserable devil of a lunatic, who believes he has committed a murder, and has lived in hiding for years—but you were spared that, by a paragraph in a little local rag."
"Oh!"
"It mentioned that you had met with a frightful accident, and were at the point of death; so then I realised that I had gone too far. I despatched a special messenger to Wellunga, tracked you to the Hills, and summoned you at last. I must confess, that the news of your accident gave me a shock. I sent the paper in next door—of course by post. I did not see why Fred should not have a bad shock too!"
Mallender made no reply, his heart was hot within him. So all the time he had been—as his Uncle declared,—a mere plaything, or puppet, who was made to dance for his amusement! Probably his companion was struck by his silence, and the judicial attitude of his young relative.
Leaning suddenly forward in his chair he said, "And now I am going to unveil the mystery; a mystery unexplained for a lifetime. Only for you, it would never have been cleared up,—and I confess, that your eagerness and determination to find either my murderer, or myself, has touched, and flattered me. There was a smack of romance about the whole thing! You have shown extraordinary pertinacity, and in spite of all sorts of obstacles, and many failures, have held on with the grip of a bulldog, or grim death. It's going to be a fairly long story, so if you smoke—I know you do—pull out the drawer in the table, and help yourself to cigarettes."
Geoffrey deliberately did as suggested, produced matches, struck one on the sole of his boot, and throwing himself back in his chair, prepared to listen to his Uncle's disclosure.