“No one blames you, my dear Callendar,” said the Collector, looking down. “We are all to blame in the sense that we ought to have seen the expedition was insufficiently guaranteed, and stopped it. I knew about it myself; we lent our car this morning to take the ladies to the station. We are all implicated in that sense, but not an atom of blame attaches to you personally.”
“I don’t feel that. I wish I could. Responsibility is a very awful thing, and I’ve no use for the man who shirks it.” His eyes were directed on Fielding. Those who knew that Fielding had undertaken to accompany and missed the early train were sorry for him; it was what is to be expected when a man mixes himself up with natives; always ends in some indignity. The Collector, who knew more, kept silent, for the official in him still hoped that Fielding would toe the line. The conversation turned to women and children again, and under its cover Major Callendar got hold of the subaltern, and set him on to bait the schoolmaster. Pretending to be more drunk than he really was, he began to make semi-offensive remarks.
“Heard about Miss Quested’s servant?” reinforced the Major.
“No, what about him?”
“Heaslop warned Miss Quested’s servant last night never to lose sight of her. Prisoner got hold of this and managed to leave him behind. Bribed him. Heaslop has just found out the whole story, with names and sums—a well-known pimp to those people gave the money, Mohammed Latif by name. So much for the servant. What about the Englishman—our friend here? How did they get rid of him? Money again.”
Fielding rose to his feet, supported by murmurs and exclamations, for no one yet suspected his integrity.
“Oh, I’m being misunderstood, apologies,” said the Major offensively. “I didn’t mean they bribed Mr. Fielding.”
“Then what do you mean?”
“They paid the other Indian to make you late—Godbole. He was saying his prayers. I know those prayers!”
“That’s ridiculous . . .” He sat down again, trembling with rage; person after person was being dragged into the mud.