"That's for the court to do," he answered. "I've no authority."
The magistrate had gone.
"Who is the senior official in this town?" I demanded.
"There he goes," he answered. "That man in the white suit with the round white topee is the collector."
So we three followed the collector to his office, arriving about two minutes after the man himself. The Goanese clerk had been in the court, and recognized me. He had not stayed to hear the end.
"Fines should be paid in the court, not here!" he intimated rudely.
We wasted no time with him but walked on through, and the collector greeted us without obvious cordiality. He did not ask us to sit down.
"My friend here has come to tell you about that man Schillingschen," said Fred.
"I suppose you mean Professor Schillingschen!"
The collector was a clean-shaven man with a blue jowl that suffered from blunt razors, and a temper rendered raw by native cooking. But he had photos of feminine relations and a little house in a dreary Midland street on his desk, and was no doubt loyal to the light he saw. I wished we had Monty with us. One glimpse of the owner of a title that stands written in the Doomsday Book would have outshone the halo of Schillingschen's culture.