The old Indian officer had certainly not been dried up by the hot climate where he had spent the greater part of his life. He was a round, tubby, rosy-faced little man, all curves and gracious contentment. His face was clean-shaven and his head was bald, while his sharp grey eyes twinkled behind golden-rimmed pince-nez, balanced on an unimportant nose. With his round head and round body--sphere super imposed on sphere--and short legs, he looked like the figure of a Chinese mandarin, and nodded his head like one when he wished to emphasise a point. There was nothing military about him in any way, and Vernon wondered how so natty and neat an old gentleman ever came to have command of men appointed to hunt down Dacoits in the jungles of Burmah. Yet Dimsdale's official career had been a stirring one, and he had done good service in pacifying the country after the war. Now he had beaten his sword into a plough-share, and, with a considerable fortune, was spending his amiable old age under his own fig-tree. When Vernon looked at the rotund little man with the round rosy face, he saw before him a perfectly contented human being, and a very kind-hearted one to boot.
"Well, sir," he said, leaning back comfortably, "we're tiled in, as masons say, so I shall be glad to hear what you have to tell me. Also, I am obliged to you for seeking out this especial case for me."
"Two special cases, my boy, two special cases," said Mr. Dimsdale, wagging his head and looking more like a Chinese mandarin than ever. "One has to do with me--I'll tell you about it later; the other has to do with Mrs. Bedge and her adopted son."
"Maunders!" cried Vernon, astonished to find that his premonition was coming true. "You don't mean Constantine?"
"Yes, I do, Arthur; of course I do. Young Maunders. I never did like that boy somehow in spite of his good looks and polite manners. After all, he's half a Greek, and I don't like the Greeks either. They're nearly as tricky as the Armenians, and that's saying a lot. All the same, I'm sorry for the sake of Emily. I'm an old friend of Emily. Ha, ha! I was in love with her before she married Bedge. He was a Levantine merchant, you know, dealt in currants and cherry jam and all the rest of it. Not a bad chap, from what I remember of him, but far too old a husband for Emily----"
"Do you mean Mrs. Bedge?" asked Vernon, vainly endeavouring to stem the flow of the old man's speech.
"Of course I mean Mrs. Bedge. I call her Emily because--ha! ha!--I was in love with her. She was a handsome girl in those years, and a good one. Why, look how she adopted that rascal--I can't help thinking young Maunders a rascal, though he does want to marry Ida, which is not to be thought of. Yes, yes! Emily always was good. I don't believe a word of it, not a word." And Mr. Dimsdale, bringing his fist down on the table, glared at his companion through his pince-nez.
"You don't believe a word of what?" asked Vernon soothingly.
"I'm coming to that; I'm coming to that. Don't worry me and hurry me." Mr. Dimsdale rubbed his nose in a vexed manner. "Young Maunders, now. Eh, what? Have you seen young Maunders lately?"
"It's odd you should ask that," said Vernon slowly, "because I have just parted from him at the Athenian Club."