As the man of business listened to this announcement, his whole expression changed oddly, his withered face seemed to tighten—but in another second the look had faded.
"Can you give me any particulars?" resumed Mallender.
"Oh, yes, I can certainly do that," acquiesced Mr. Parr now, clearing his throat, and crossing a pair of startlingly thin legs. "The simple facts were these. Captain Mallender and two brother officers went on a shooting trip from Bangalore in the beginning of the hot weather, 1881. They worked up through Mysore, into Coorg; one morning shortly before their leave expired, Captain Mallender's tent was found to be empty—the bed had not been slept in, his belongings were scattered about, a novel and a half-written letter lay open beside his cigar-case. Apparently, he had gone for a stroll before turning in. They said he was a restless young fellow, always eager to be doing something: fishing, bathing, shooting, exploring, and twice as active as his comrades; it looked as if he had wandered out, on one of his erratic rambles, and come to an untimely end. Some thought, he had been drowned in the Cauvery, but his body was not recovered—and dead or alive, he was never seen again."
"No, of course not!" assented his nephew with significant emphasis.
"Such disappearances are not altogether unknown," supplemented Mr. Fleming, with an air of imparting instruction to juvenile ignorance. "Oriental life has an irresistible fascination for some natures; the glamour, the relief from convention and the tyranny of the starched collar, the lure of attractive and voluptuous women, idleness, ease, luxury, drugs! I could tell you of an officer who went crazy about a beautiful Kashmeri, and actually abandoned his regiment and his nationality, in order to live as a native! Twice his friends came from England to fetch him home, and each time he escaped—even at the eleventh hour in Bombay, plunged into the bazaars, hid his identity, and was lost, in every sense!"
"I'll swear my Uncle wasn't that sort," protested Mallender. "He was a sportsman, and as hard as nails; a soft sleepy existence among divans and hukas, would never appeal to him. I am absolutely convinced, that he was decoyed out of his tent, and murdered; and as I've already told you, I do not intend to return home, till I have unravelled the mystery, and run the impostor to ground—to this I stick!" and once more he thumped his umbrella, and disturbed the dust of weeks.
"Then in that case, I'm afraid you will make a lifelong stay in India," rejoined Mr. Parr—smiling as one smiles at the absurd pretensions of a child.
"Perhaps so," assented the young man shortly; "I intend to see this affair through—and my time is now my own. I conclude that you feel bound not to assist me, or give me the name of the town where the letters are posted?"
"Oh, no objection, Captain Mallender, no objection whatever," Mr. Fleming responded with effusion; "the letters are posted in different places all over the country, within, say, a radius of four hundred miles. For instance, we may receive one communication from Georgetown here in Madras, the next from Bangalore, from an obscure post office in the hills, or a remote village in the plains. Let me think: the last was from a railway station called Erode—so you see, my dear sir, that your Uncle's movements are erratic, and his address is vague. Accept a piece of absolutely disinterested advice," and here the speaker tendered a soft, empty hand. "You will do no good out here, you will only waste time and money, without results. Give up the quest, and return home!"
"No," and Mallender's eyes flashed. "What you say more than ever convinces me that the man who writes to you is a criminal, who goes in abject fear of his life, and is hiding from justice."