“I think it must be quite true,” Janet observed, as we watched them pass the house. “And I shall be glad if it is: Arnold has been tormenting himself with the fancy that the gallant captain was thinking of little Mina.”
A day or two after this, it chanced that Dr. Knox had to visit Sir Henry Westmorland, who had managed to give a twist to his ankle. Sir Henry was one of those sociable, good-hearted men that no one can help liking; a rather elderly bachelor. He and Tamlyn were old friends, and we had all dined at Foxgrove about a week before.
“Would you like to go over with me, Johnny?” asked Dr. Knox, when he was starting.
I said I should like it very much, and got into the “conveyance,” the doctor letting me drive. Thomas was not with us. We soon reached Foxgrove: a low, straggling, red-brick mansion, standing in a small park, about two miles and a half from Lefford.
Dr. Knox went in; leaving me and the conveyance on the smooth wide gravel-drive before the house. Presently a groom came up to take charge of it, saying Sir Henry was asking for me. He had seen me from the window.
Sir Henry was lying on a sofa near the window, and Knox was already beginning upon the ankle. A gentlemanly little man, nearly bald, sat on the ottoman in the middle of the room. I found it was one Major Leckie.
Some trifle—are these trifles chance?—turned the conversation upon India. I think Knox spoke of some snake-bite in a man’s ankle that had laid him by for a month or two: it was no other than the late whilom mayor, Sir Daniel Jenkins. Upon which, Major Leckie began relating his experience of some reptile bites in India. The major had been home nearly two years upon sick leave, he said, and was now going back again.
“The 30th Bengal Cavalry!” repeated Dr. Knox, as Major Leckie happened to mention that regiment—which was his, and the doctor remembered that it was Captain Collinson’s. “One of the officers of that regiment is staying here now.”
“Is he!” cried the major, briskly. “Which of them?”
“Captain Collinson.”