"Oh! You have his address?" I said.
"Certainly! What did you expect I was behind the curtain with the Viceroy for?" she said, opening her violet eyes innocently. "It's Bungloore—First Turning to the Right—At the End of the passage."
Bungloore—near Ghouli Pass—in the Jungle! I knew the place, a spot of dank pestilence and mystery. "You never could have gone there," I said.
"You do not know WHAT I could do for a FRIEND," she said sweetly, veiling her eyes in demure significance.
"Oh, come off the roof!" I said bluntly.
She could be obedient when it was necessary. She came off. Not without her revenge. "Try to remember you are not at school with the Stalkies," she said, and turned away.
I went to Bungloore,—not on her account, but my own. If you don't know India, you won't know Bungloore. It's all that and more. An egg dropped by a vulture, sat upon and addled by the Department. But I knew the house and walked boldly in. A lion walked out of one door as I came in at another. We did this two or three times—and found it amusing. A large cobra in the hall rose up, bowed as I passed, and respectfully removed his hood.
I found the poor old boy at the end of the passage. It might have been the passage between Calais and Dover,—he looked so green, so limp and dejected. I affected not to notice it, and threw myself in a chair.
He gazed at me for a moment and then said, "Did you hear what the chair was saying?"
It was an ordinary bamboo armchair, and had creaked after the usual fashion of bamboo chairs. I said so.