"Oh, well, he was born in this country. I have thought once or twice he may have dark blood in him, but dear me, even if he has. There are many excellent Eurasians! Much more sterling characters among them than he seems to be turning out. He used to be a clever, amusing fellow, but it strikes me from what Tresham said he's been spending too much, and that demoralises a man, of course. Perhaps his wife is a butterfly—fond of show!"
"Ah, there you are, the poor wife always gets the blame! Remember Mr. Tresham said she was very charming and good. The same can't be said of her husband, I fear," said Mrs. Melford, looking at her lord and master with a glance of satisfaction.
Next morning Mrs. Melford could not help feeling a sense of relief when her guest announced that he found he must at once return home—that more than one case in the High Court claimed his presence.
That evening Alfred Rayner sailed down the Hoogly carrying his secret with him on his way back to Madras.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
On the morning of his return from Madras, as the train was sweeping into the station at Puranapore, Mark Cheveril noticed among the passengers gathered on the platform for the up train the Mahomedan, Zynool Sahib. He had never exchanged words with him since the morning at the Kutchery, of which he retained an unpleasant recollection. His feeling was evidently reciprocated by the Mussulman, for a scowl was distinctly visible on his ruddy brown face as soon as he caught sight of the Assistant-Collector.
"That man suggests the hatching of evil plots every time I set eyes on him," said Mark to himself, as he watched the heavy form lurching into one of the carriages for Madras. "Fortunately we give each other a wide berth!"
Mark stepped into his waiting bandy and was driven towards the cantonment, as it was still called though bereft of its military element. When about half-way to his bungalow, he perceived, under the shade of a spreading neem tree, two men apparently engaged in earnest conversation. Without difficulty he recognised one of them as Moideen, the Collector's trusted butler. His companion was surely none other than Zynool, though he had certainly seen his legs disappearing into a railway carriage some minutes ago and knew that he must now be on his way to the city. This then must be his double! Height, gestures, features, and the dense black beard, all seemed an exact facsimile of the Puranapore magnate. Mark, however, soon became preoccupied by other thoughts, and the incident faded from his memory for the time being.
He found the Collector busy in his office preparing for his intended tour on the following morning.