“Very well,” I assented, “but if it were possible I should feel obliged if the superintendent could see me even for a moment.”
After waiting for about half an hour I was escorted to an office, in the middle of which was a large table, and sitting at it a stout, elderly, dark man in a sort of blue serge undress, with letters on his collar. He looked up interrogatively as I entered, and said:
“About the vegetables, I presume, madam?” (All Indian jails supply these.)
“No,” I replied in a faint and tremulous key. “I have called to inquire about my brother, Captain Lingard?”
The superintendent hastily pushed back his chair and rose; he appeared too astonished to articulate, and gazed at me in a sort of dull amazement.
“I am staying in Bangalore in order to be near him,” I continued.
“With friends?” he asked at last.
“Oh no, just lodging with a woman in the Infantry Lines, Mrs. de Castro.”
“Yes, I know, her nephew has a post here. You are not staying for any time, I presume?”
“Yes, I am.”