“No, I am not in the regular army; I’m in the yeomanry.”
“No profession then?” raising his arched brows in rather supercilious surprise.
“No, not any.” His profession as heir to his Uncle Dan, would soon be a thing of the past.
Mr. Cardozo’s surmise was perfectly correct. Major Jervis did not appear, he merely sent his salaams and dined in his own apartments, leaving his son and his heir to consume that meal tête-à-tête. It was a great improvement on the usual menu. Evidently Fuzzil had resources that he drew upon on worthy occasions.
“It’s a fine moonlight night,” remarked Fernandez. “Let us go and smoke in front of the house, it’s better than being indoors, and I like to make the most of the hill air when I’m up, and we are out of the way of eavesdroppers.”
In a few moments they were sitting on the low wall in front of the Pela Kothi.
“Osman was a desperate loss,” began Fernandez as he struck a fuzee—“a desperate loss.”
“So I gather from what I hear,” assented his companion.
“That’s partly what brought me up. I have business round here, of course, though. I live in Calcutta. I like to keep my eye on the property, and I look after the major and manage his affairs as well as I can—I feel it my duty.” And he began to smoke.
Was here yet another man, of no kin to Major Jervis, who was to put his own flesh and blood to shame?