In Old Madras

By B. M. Croker

"When you've 'eard the East a-calling
You never 'eed nought else."
KIPLING.

LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO.
PATERNOSTER ROW

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

WHAT SHE OVERHEARD
THE SERPENT'S TOOTH
A RASH EXPERIMENT
THE YOUNGEST MISS MOWBRAY

IN OLD MADRAS

CHAPTER I

A heavy tropical surf boomed on the shingle, with the precision and monotony of minute guns, and a fierce clammy breeze raged from the sea, where Massulah boats and small shipping rocked uneasily. The same wind, circulating inland, drove whirling clouds of brick-red dust through Madras City, and vigorously swept the long Mount Road,—ere it died with a whisper, among distant paddy fields.

By ten o'clock on this detestable morning, all troops had returned to barracks, signallers and golfers deserted the Island, riding-parties were no longer abroad, but under languid punkahs, or tireless electric fans, the military, civil, and mercantile element were still actively engaged.

Among the latter, the wealthy house of Brown, Brown and Co. stood prominent as one of the oldest firms in India.

Established in the humble early days of John Company, it had acquired name and fame, expanded and flourished. Undisturbed by wars, unshaken by mutinies, or famine, its grim, hard-featured offices continued to frown upon the first line of beach. Possibly those storm-beaten walls, and gloomy flagged passages, had echoed to the voice and footsteps of a visitor from "Writer's Buildings"—the future hero of Arcot and Plassy, a junior clerk, named Robert Clive. Who knows?

At present, within the inhospitable waiting-room (a lofty slate-coloured apartment, with heavily barred windows), a well set-up young Englishman was unnecessarily pacing the worn cocoanut matting. His thin cashmere suit, and Panama hat, indicated the recent efforts of a London tailor to cope with a warm climate. The white-covered umbrella which he carried in his hand was also new—indeed, its owner himself was new to the country, having arrived the previous evening.

At the moment, the stranger was impatiently awaiting an interview with the acting representatives of Brown and Brown—but apparently these were in no hurry to receive him.

Meanwhile, in a spacious inner office, Mr. Fleming, a stout, sleek personage with a bald head and heavy face, had been handed a visiting-card by his partner Mr. Parr—a shrivelled little gentleman, known indifferently as "Monkey Parr," or "Old Nick," for Anglo-India delights in nicknames.

"Captain Mallender, Army and Navy Club," he read aloud, then staring hard at his companion, gave a low and distinctly unofficial whistle.

"Oh, yes," responded Mr. Parr, removing his pince-nez with a decisive click. "Same name, same club. I can tell you, that it gave me a nasty shock; but, of course, here is the heir, now his father is dead, come out to nose about, and make enquiries."

"He may enquire till he's blue—he will find that he has undertaken a fool's errand. Why can't the young ass leave well alone?" demanded Mr. Fleming testily.

"Because he doesn't believe things are well," sharply rejoined his partner.

"And intends to better them, eh? If he is not mighty careful, he will lose his half-loaf; and anyway it's a deuced nuisance; a very awkward business—we shall have the fellow in and out all day, bothering for information."

"Well, he won't get it!" declared Mr. Fleming. "Let's send for him, and see what he is like? Here, Parsons!" he shouted to a pallid clerk; "just ask the gentleman to step this way."

In less than two minutes, the said gentleman, alert, well-groomed, and self-possessed, was bowing to the firm.

"Very glad to see you, Captain Mallender," lied Mr. Parr, the more prominent of the partners. "Just arrived, find it rather sultry, eh?"

"Yes," agreed the caller in a pleasant manly voice, "it's a bit of a change from an English winter—can't say much for your climate!"

"Won't you take a chair?" suavely suggested Mr. Fleming. "I suppose you have come out with the usual battery of rifles, to shoot big game?"

"Shoot big game! No," replied Mallender, as he seated himself, placed his hat carefully beside him on the dusty matting, and then in a clear decided tone, promptly announced his mission. "The fact is, I'm here to make enquiries about my Uncle and namesake, an officer in the Blue Hussars, who disappeared mysteriously about thirty years ago, when camping up in Coorg."

Mr. Parr nodded gravely, and considered the speaker with a sharp appraising eye—a veritable rat's eye. His partner merely exhibited a detached and judicial attitude, as he twisted the visitor's card between his bleached, fat fingers.

"He was supposed to have been drowned in the Cauvery, or carried off by a tiger," continued the young man, "and after the family had put on mourning, and the step had gone in the regiment, he wrote to my father, to say that although dead to the world, he was still in the land of the living—I have this letter in my possession."

Here the speaker hesitated for a moment, and looked expectantly at his audience; but the representatives of the house of Brown and Brown maintained an unsympathetic and professional silence, only broken by the ticking of a typewriter, and the creaking of a punkah.

"The letter," resumed Mallender, "stated that my Uncle would draw half his income through your firm, the other half would be paid to my father, as the price of his silence; and on condition that he made no attempt to trace his brother, or allowed it to be known that he was still alive. After considerable reluctance and delay, my father agreed. You follow me?"

"Oh, yes—we follow you," assented Mr. Fleming, with a bland calmness, almost feline in its composure.

"My father died two months ago; before the end, he told me of the existence of his brother and the source of the greater part of his income; he also spoke of his promise—a promise he deeply regretted. However, a pledge given before I was born has no hold on me. If my Uncle is alive, I am determined to find him, and speak to him face to face."

Having made this declaration, Captain Mallender paused, and leaning on the knob of his umbrella, gravely contemplated his companions.

"Ah, so that's your plan!" exclaimed Mr. Fleming, as he dabbed his forehead with a silk handkerchief—he suffered severely from heat.

"Have you seen my Uncle since he wrote that letter?" inquired Mallender.

"No. We have never seen him, and we cannot tell you anything about him," was the brusque and unsatisfactory reply.

"But I presume you know where he is to be found? You must have some address?"

"Which we are bound never to divulge; and in your case, my dear sir, is it not imprudent to risk the loss of four thousand a year—in fact, most of your income?"

Mr. Parr broke off dramatically, in order to allow the fact to soak into the mind of this good-looking lunatic.

"Possibly you may not be disturbed in the house or park," supplemented his partner, "but it is from sound investments that the bulk of the money comes. Formerly, interest was higher, but securities fluctuate. We have done our best—yes, we have done our best."

Here Mr. Fleming folded his hands across his capacious cummerbund, and assumed an expression of benign satisfaction.

"Oh, your best, of course," quickly assented Mallender. "I did not come out here with an eye to money. What brought me to India was to find my Uncle," and his umbrella struck the matting with such a vigorous thump, that it raised a little puff of dust. "I have my own ideas. I've given this business a great deal of—er—consideration, and I don't mind telling you, I firmly believe my Uncle to be dead, and that some infernal scoundrel is impersonating him, and living on half his fortune. Our share was just a bribe to shut our mouths and stifle inquiries. Now," suddenly appealing to Mr. Parr, "what do you say?"

"Well, Captain Mallender," and he gave a laugh of ironical amusement, "if I must give an opinion, I say, that your idea would make a valuable plot for a sixpenny shocker, but that is all there is in it."

"There is everything in it," replied the young man forcibly. "By all accounts my Uncle was remarkable for his high spirits and energy, a keen soldier—but not attached to the East. He heard the West a-calling, and was always looking forward to returning home; his letters were full of it. I've read them myself. So I ask you why—if alive—he should cut adrift from all he cared for, and bury himself in a country that he loathed?"

"Yes, yes, I must admit there is something in what you say," conceded Mr. Parr. "He was a handsome, headstrong, young officer. I saw him once, in this very office, when I was a junior—but—but——" and he pursed up his thin purple lips, "things happen, changes take place in people's characters, as well as in their constitutions. We have all to reckon with the unexpected; at any rate, we have Captain Mallender's instructions, and in his handwriting."

"Ah, probably a forgery! By all accounts, a highly cultivated native art."

"There is no question of imposture," rejoined Mr. Parr emphatically.

"I am afraid I must differ with you. I believe there has been foul play, and I am determined to remain in India, till I have got to the bottom of this affair."

As the man of business listened to this announcement, his whole expression changed oddly, his withered face seemed to tighten—but in another second the look had faded.

"Can you give me any particulars?" resumed Mallender.

"Oh, yes, I can certainly do that," acquiesced Mr. Parr now, clearing his throat, and crossing a pair of startlingly thin legs. "The simple facts were these. Captain Mallender and two brother officers went on a shooting trip from Bangalore in the beginning of the hot weather, 1881. They worked up through Mysore, into Coorg; one morning shortly before their leave expired, Captain Mallender's tent was found to be empty—the bed had not been slept in, his belongings were scattered about, a novel and a half-written letter lay open beside his cigar-case. Apparently, he had gone for a stroll before turning in. They said he was a restless young fellow, always eager to be doing something: fishing, bathing, shooting, exploring, and twice as active as his comrades; it looked as if he had wandered out, on one of his erratic rambles, and come to an untimely end. Some thought, he had been drowned in the Cauvery, but his body was not recovered—and dead or alive, he was never seen again."

"No, of course not!" assented his nephew with significant emphasis.

"Such disappearances are not altogether unknown," supplemented Mr. Fleming, with an air of imparting instruction to juvenile ignorance. "Oriental life has an irresistible fascination for some natures; the glamour, the relief from convention and the tyranny of the starched collar, the lure of attractive and voluptuous women, idleness, ease, luxury, drugs! I could tell you of an officer who went crazy about a beautiful Kashmeri, and actually abandoned his regiment and his nationality, in order to live as a native! Twice his friends came from England to fetch him home, and each time he escaped—even at the eleventh hour in Bombay, plunged into the bazaars, hid his identity, and was lost, in every sense!"

"I'll swear my Uncle wasn't that sort," protested Mallender. "He was a sportsman, and as hard as nails; a soft sleepy existence among divans and hukas, would never appeal to him. I am absolutely convinced, that he was decoyed out of his tent, and murdered; and as I've already told you, I do not intend to return home, till I have unravelled the mystery, and run the impostor to ground—to this I stick!" and once more he thumped his umbrella, and disturbed the dust of weeks.

"Then in that case, I'm afraid you will make a lifelong stay in India," rejoined Mr. Parr—smiling as one smiles at the absurd pretensions of a child.

"Perhaps so," assented the young man shortly; "I intend to see this affair through—and my time is now my own. I conclude that you feel bound not to assist me, or give me the name of the town where the letters are posted?"

"Oh, no objection, Captain Mallender, no objection whatever," Mr. Fleming responded with effusion; "the letters are posted in different places all over the country, within, say, a radius of four hundred miles. For instance, we may receive one communication from Georgetown here in Madras, the next from Bangalore, from an obscure post office in the hills, or a remote village in the plains. Let me think: the last was from a railway station called Erode—so you see, my dear sir, that your Uncle's movements are erratic, and his address is vague. Accept a piece of absolutely disinterested advice," and here the speaker tendered a soft, empty hand. "You will do no good out here, you will only waste time and money, without results. Give up the quest, and return home!"

"No," and Mallender's eyes flashed. "What you say more than ever convinces me that the man who writes to you is a criminal, who goes in abject fear of his life, and is hiding from justice."

"Oh, very well, Captain Mallender, very well!" gobbled Mr. Fleming, and his tone was throaty and offended, "there is no more to be said—it is not our business to argue; we merely state facts. You say, you have no doubt that your relative is dead. You may also rest assured, that from the day it is made known to our client that you are determined to trace him—the allowance, as paid through our firm, will cease."

"Well, I'll take all risks," declared this rash adventurer. "And there is one thing I can promise you. I intend to put the fear of death into your—er—correspondent! Some fellows come out to India for what they call 'Shikar'; this business is my shikar—instead of bison, tiger, or elephants—and mind you, it's not Uncle I am bent on tracking, but your unseen client, the murderous ruffian who impersonates him!" Then, rising after a somewhat prolonged and hostile silence:

"Gentlemen, I see you are not disposed to wish me luck, so I must do my best to worry through alone. I shall call on you before I leave the country, and I'll let you know if I have any success. All letters to the Bank of Madras will be forwarded."

An extraordinary snorting noise, and the waving of a fin-like hand, was the only adieu vouchsafed by Mr. Fleming, but his partner jerked himself out of his seat, and said:

"All right, Captain Mallender, and I make no doubt that if you persist in your 'shikar,' we shall be communicating with you at an early date."

"Oh, you mean about the money? So be it," and with a hasty farewell, the visitor effected a rapid exit, ran down the worn stone stairs, flung himself into his gharry, and commanded the driver to take him to the Brigade Office in St. George's Fort.

Meanwhile Mr. Fleming lay back in his office chair, mopping his glistening pink face, and gasped out:

"That young fellow is going to give trouble!"

To which unpleasant suggestion, his companion calmly replied:

"Trouble for himself—yes! He will burn his fingers badly, without money he is tethered, and cannot move far. I bet you what you like," rapping his glasses on the desk, "that we shall have him here before the rains borrowing the coin to take him to England."

CHAPTER II

Colonel Frederick Tallboys, Mallender Tallboys, to give him his complete name, held a high official appointment, and occupied suitable quarters in St. George's Fort. He belonged to a distant branch of the Mallender family, was head of a department, and the husband of a wealthy and worshipping wife. All his life—now numbering over fifty years—"Freddy" had been steady, hard-working, and far-seeing; passed his examinations creditably,—if without distinction,—and from an English regiment entered the good old Madras Staff Corps, and worked his way up from adjutant to wing officer, till he had at last succeeded in climbing into a comfortable berth in the secretariat.

His climb was possibly accelerated by an attractive personality, a buoyant manner, and a remarkable skill in horsemanship. For years "Freddy T." had been the most notable gentleman rider in the Presidency; indeed, such was his fame, that it extended to Lucknow, the Punjab, and had even oozed into far Cashmere; but now, this wise little man had discarded his racing colours, and was resting on well-earned laurels.

"Freddy T." was short, well-made, and remarkably dapper, with a pair of twinkling grey eyes—eyes quick to notice a misplaced badge, a woman's dress, or a breach of etiquette. He had a handsome nose, an imposing moustache, was always admirably turned-out, and carried his well-groomed upright person with considerable dignity. In spite of certain insignificant foibles—a hot temper, and a vein of dogged obstinacy, he was popular all over the Presidency. Most people had a cordial word for "Freddy T.," who was known to be a smart officer, and as influential and good-natured as he was straight, and safe! During his years of expatriation, Tallboys had never lost his interest in Mallender of Mallender—the head of his house; unfortunately, like other old families, the race was now almost extinct. Geoffrey was the last of the direct line, and failing him, and an aged and decrepit cousin, this high official in Madras Fort was the next heir! But it was not on this account that Colonel Tallboys' interest in the family had been kept alight. As a raw youth from Bedford and Sandhurst, he had visited at Mallender, and never forgotten the charm and kindness of his lovely hostess; or how she had talked to, drawn out, and encouraged, a callow, awkward boy; the wise and witty things she said to him in those far-off days were still green in his memory; for her he had broken the ice of his reserve, and imparted to Mollie Mallender many opinions and aspirations that were withheld from his own widowed mother,—a helpless, faded lady, who spent half her days in bed, reading novelettes—the other half in bemoaning her health, her fate, and her servants. But this exquisite Irish cousin with her brilliant complexion, irresistible charm, eloquent dark eyes, and impulsive manner, was a divinity to whom the stiff shy youth immediately surrendered his heart and confidence. Cousin Mollie gave him self-respect, wise advice, courage, and an everlasting reverence for all womenkind—her sisters. In a secret pocket in his battered dressing-case (known only to his bearer) there still reposed a little gold pencil-case, her gift, and several old and well-worn letters. Mrs. Mallender's influence was far-reaching, and radiated over two parishes; her generosity, energy, and high spirits were infectious. The prim old-fashioned "Court" became the centre of activity and gaiety. Edgar Mallender himself,—inclined to be misanthropic and morose,—expanded in such domestic sunshine, and took a prominent part in county business, and the affairs of his tenants and property; ably maintaining the family traditions, until the sudden death of his adorable wife. After this crushing loss, he became a changed man, declaring that a light had gone out, and left him for the rest of his life in outer darkness. Gradually, he sank from the sight of his neighbours, neglected his estates and his duties, and lived among his books, his memories, and his servants, the life of an eccentric, and recluse.

The most ardent flatterer could not pretend that Colonel Tallboys looked "good-natured" this morning, as he sat before his big office table, gold spectacles on nose, reading a private letter; it was one which Geoffrey Mallender had despatched the week before he left for India, and as his relative perused it, his eyebrows knit, till they almost met over the bridge of his well-shaped nose; obviously he became every moment more and more astonished and annoyed. This missive said:

"I have decided to take up the question of my Uncle's disappearance, and to thoroughly investigate the case."

"The boy's mad!" muttered Colonel Tallboys, as he hastily whirled over a page.

"I am starting for Madras by the next mail, and hope to arrive a week after you receive this."

"Why," glancing at the date, "it missed the mail. He may be here to-day—Good Lord!"

"I will look you up at once," continued the writer, "and trust you will give me a helping hand, as you know the Presidency so well."

"Stark staring mad!" exclaimed Colonel Tallboys, pushing away the letter with a gesture of irritation. "Never heard of such an idea, never. Help!" The words seemed to choke him. "Well, I must put all this bother out of my head, and set to work," and he reached for a large bundle of official documents, in which he became speedily absorbed.

For an hour, he sat intent on his correspondence, glancing through papers, and making pencil notes; suddenly there was a sound of steps, and talking, he heard the door open, and a young and cheerful voice saying:

"All right, thanks, give Colonel Tallboys my card."

It was Geoffrey. He sprang to his feet, tore off his glasses, and turned to receive him.

"Hullo, Geoff!" shaking him warmly by the hand, "I'm glad to see you. Do you know, I only got your letter an hour ago—and so you have come out!"

"Yes, here I am."

Colonel Tallboys surveyed his kinsman with critical appraisement—in his opinion, appearance ranked high. A well-bred, well set-up young fellow, with the clear-cut Mallender nose, and his mother's dark eyes. Yes. An excellent specimen of the average good-looking Englishman!

"I've not seen you for years. How long ago is it?"

"Not since you came down to Eton on the 4th of June, and gave me a jolly good tip."

"Did I?—ha! ha! You have a long memory. Well, where are you staying? Or did you come straight from the station?"

"No; I arrived last night. I'm at a pot-house that calls itself 'Hotel St. George,' and reeks of rancid cocoanut oil. My driver introduced me."

"Good Lord, it's in Blacktown! I beg its pardon—Georgetown! Of course, you come to us at once. I'll send over a fellow to pack, and bring your kit. We are pretty full, as this is the season, but Fanny will find you a corner."

"Oh, don't you bother about me," protested his cousin, "I'm only going to stop in Madras for two or three days, just to see you, get the hang of the country, and benefit of your experience—I expect you can give me lots of tips, and I want to arrange about money and letters, before I go off on my travels!"

"But, my dear boy," said Colonel Tallboys, sitting down as he spoke, and pointing to a chair, "you don't mean to tell me, that you are really serious about this business? You are not in earnest, in starting on such a wild-goose chase?"

"But of course I am, and in deadly earnest; that is what brought me out here, in the middle of the hunting season."

The young fellow with his mother's eyes, and her impulsive and warm-hearted nature, had also inherited his father's square jaw, and (cold thought) possibly been cursed with Edgar's stubborn will,—and curious strain of eccentricity!

For a few seconds Colonel Tallboys surveyed his visitor in grave speculative silence. At last he said:

"Well, look here, Geoffrey; you may as well spend two or three weeks with us, and see how the poor benighted Presidency enjoys itself? There are a couple of balls, a big gymkhana, and the polo tournament coming off. This is our cold weather."

"Is it?" and he laughed ironically. "Well, I'm glad you mentioned it!"

"Of course this is a particularly nasty day! Don't sample us by a beastly long-shore wind. By the by, you play polo—your regiment had a strong team. I used to see your name in matches. I'll find you ponies."

"It's most awfully good of you, Cousin Fred; polo and dances are all right—but you know what I'm out for, and they are not my job."

"No, but after a lapse of thirty years, a few weeks one way or the other can't possibly matter, and Fanny and I would be mortally hurt if you start off without paying us a visit. We want to get to know you—and you want to get to know something of this blessed old country."

As the young man looked half persuaded he continued:

"Anyway, my dear fellow, you will never find your Uncle, and you may take my word for it. I've not lived out here for twenty-nine years without knowing what I am talking about. Now tell me something about yourself, and Mallender, and your poor father."

"Oh, yes! Well, you see, he had been ailing the last five years—the result of a bad fall from his horse—and he was greatly changed latterly. He could not bear to see anyone, would lie all day staring before him, and took no interest in any mortal thing!"

"No, not since your mother died, that I can well understand. You remember her, of course?"

The next moment Colonel Tallboys, who was proud of his tact, could have kicked himself. Why, the boy was fifteen when she died! Geoffrey made no reply, but he suddenly looked down, and his face seemed to quiver, and go white.

"What a lovely face! yes, and a lovely soul! There never was anyone like her." The speaker's voice sounded a little husky.

From the moment this sentence fell from his lips, Geoffrey entertained another feeling,—a sudden warm glow of personal affection,—for his dapper little kinsman, and instantly made up his mind to accept the invitation to spend some weeks in his company.

"And what does the old place look like now?" resumed Colonel Tallboys in a livelier key.

"It looks frightfully dilapidated. You see, the pater let things slide—the grounds, and the gardens, and the shooting. He only occupied a few rooms, and the rest of the house was given up to rats and damp; the paper was peeling off the walls, the roof leaked like a sieve, and drains required to be overhauled. I'm getting the house done up."

"That will cost you a pretty penny!"

"Yes, I'm afraid so—it will mop up all my bit of capital."

"And so you chucked the service at seven-and-twenty! How was that?"

"Well, you see, my father made a point of it; the regiment was ordered to Egypt, and I could not get much leave, and anyway, I was all he had; but I don't mind telling you, Cousin Fred, that it was a wrench—I was most desperately sorry to go. Those bugles this morning in the Fort gave me—er—a horrible lump in my throat. Now I want to talk to you, if I am not taking up too much of your time."

"My time is my own," rejoined the little man rather grandly, "and anyway, it's not every day I have a call from you, Geoff."

"Then look here," tilting his chair nearer, "it's about this business—I want to know your opinion about Uncle Geoffrey."

"My opinion is, that he is dead—dead as a door-nail this thirty years," replied Colonel Tallboys with prompt decision.

"He certainly was not dead twenty-nine years ago, and supposing for the sake of argument he was still alive—I ask you just to look at the case from that point of view?"

"Possibly, but improbably, he got into some big scrape—and found it necessary to disappear."

"But by all accounts, he was straight as a die—no debts—no scandals," argued the young man.

"He is most certainly dead this many a day—or——" and the little Colonel pursed up his lips, and stonily contemplated the opposite wall.

"Or?" repeated Mallender eagerly.

"Oh, I could tell you queer stories. If Geoffrey is alive, I can solve the puzzle in six letters—'a woman.'"

"What—a black woman! Oh, rats! you're not serious? though I've been to Brown and Co., and they hinted at the same thing."

"You did not get much change out of them, did you?"

"No, but I gathered that the man who impersonates my Uncle moves about within a radius of three hundred miles, more or less—and if he is to be found, I mean to have a good try. I told the old boys quite plainly, and they did not like it, no, not a little bit. I left them with their hackles up." He paused abruptly, for Colonel Tallboys—who had been lounging in his chair, nursing a remarkably neat foot and ankle—now sat erect, stiff as a ramrod; his face had assumed an entirely different aspect, it wore the expression of the President of a district court martial, who listens to some vital and unexpected evidence.

"I give you my solemn word of honour, Geoffrey, that I have not the vaguest idea of what you are talking about—a man who impersonates your Uncle—did you say?"

"Oh, of course I forgot that you had not heard anything. My father never told me, till a few weeks before he died."

"Yes, yes, yes, go on," urged his listener impatiently.

"You will see all about it in this," now producing a pocket-book, from which he carefully extracted a thin flimsy letter. "Our lawyers at home know of this, so do Brown and Co., but no one else."

Colonel Tallboys resumed his spectacles, and slowly read and re-read the contents of a single sheet of paper. Here was the second startling episode, which had come before him that morning. As he studied the faded lines, he was thinking hard, and swiftly making up his mind. So Geoffrey the elder was alive, and Geoffrey the younger, in spite of his mandate, had come out to search for him—and thereby risk the loss of the whole of his income. Of course, such madness must be put a stop to: he would look after Mollie Mallender's boy, and save him from himself. With the alertness of a mental gymnast, his active and well-trained brain was already weaving schemes, and like a character in ancient melodrama he promptly decided to "dissemble."

"By Jove! so your Uncle is actually alive, and in India! I am completely bowled out—what an amazing thing!" As he tenderly refolded the frail letter he added: "Bazaar paper, and bazaar ink. I say! if you hunt him down, you forfeit four thousand a year, eh? It's rather a wild enterprise!"

"It would be if my Uncle were alive, but I believe this travelling criminal is the man who has made away with him."

"So you are determined to run your head against a brick wall—obstinacy is a family trait."

"If you call my father's last wish a brick wall, I am here to deal with it," and he sat back, as if to study the effect of his announcement.

"Oh, well, well, poor fellow," mumbled Colonel Tallboys, "no doubt he was in a weak state."

"Bodily, yes; but his mind was stronger than it had been for a long time. He had a vivid dream about his brother." Geoffrey paused and coloured, noticing his listener's expression of amused, but tolerant, disdain. "I say! you are not laughing, are you?"

"No, my dear boy—go on, go on."

"He said he saw him beckoning to him with one hand, whilst he held the other over his eyes—it was always the same dream—he dreamt it many times, and he felt, when he was helpless and dying, that he had made a mistake in not setting this letter aside, and coming straight out here; but, you see, he was in love with my mother, and there was the money, and other things, and so he stayed at home; but the affair preyed on his conscience more and more every year; till at last it became an obsession. Latterly, he could talk of nothing else; he said he was a miserable coward, who had deserted his only brother, and that my mother's death was his punishment; he worked himself up into a fearful state of excitement, and made me swear to undertake a duty in which he had failed."

"But God bless me, Geoffrey! there is this letter in black and white, forbidding any search—as plain as plain can be."

"Yes, but my father thought the letter was a forgery."

"What do Brown and Brown say?"

"They declare the letter to be genuine."

"Ah, and I agree with them! Your father's mind was undoubtedly unhinged by a long illness."

"But mine is not, Cousin Fred. At first, I must confess, I was rather reluctant to come out,—though, of course, I intended to keep my word; but by degrees, when I was all alone at Mallender, the idea grew upon me; I had no dreams, but I had the picture of Uncle Geoffrey always facing me in the dining-room—an oil-painting in uniform, done before he left England—and it seemed to me that he not only took his meals with me, but rode, and walked, and sat with me as well; and I knew I'd never shake off the delusion—if it was a delusion—till I had left no stone unturned out here—and here I am! I see you think I'm crazy? Stark mad. Eh?"

"And have you any plans?" asked his cousin abruptly.

"Not anything very definite. I know that my Uncle or his double is in this Presidency—within about three hundred miles of Madras City."

"Then what is your scheme? your proposed campaign? Surely you won't advertise in the press, and have every filthy European loafer claiming a beloved nephew, and howling on his neck?"

"Certainly not," replied Mallender, who looked a little nettled; "I consulted a firm of smart lawyers, as our own old stick-in-the-muds were dead against my trip, and they put me on to a private enquiry firm of the name of Jaffer, who live in the City of Hyderabad in the Deccan."

"By George, they must do a great business! The city is full of the bad characters of every nation, people, and tongue. Well, go on."

"And Jaffer and Co. believe they can help me; and say that a good many men disappear in India much in the same way; but, of course, they don't know it is not my Uncle I expect to find—I'm afraid you look upon me as a lunatic?"

"No, no. I see that you feel the claims of kinship as keenly as I do myself; but you are wrong in starting on this crazy quest. If your Uncle is alive—I believe he has gone native. Take my advice," and he looked full into Mallender's grave face, "let sleeping dogs lie."

"Not this sleeping dog!" rejoined the young man, with unexpected energy. "The clever brute who murdered my Uncle draws his money and forges his name!"

"Well, well, Geoffrey, the weather is far too muggy for argument, we must agree to differ. One thing is certain; you cannot go up-country as ignorant as a new-born Europe babe; you must give us a couple of months at least—till we start for the Neilgherries."

"It's most awfully kind of you; and I'd like to stay with you for a few weeks and learn a little experience."

"Then that's settled," said Colonel Tallboys aloud. To himself: "Fan will easily keep this headstrong fellow amused, perhaps entangle him in a matrimonial engagement, and drive this lunacy out of his head."

"Just one word more, my dear boy. For God's sake, don't let a soul know of your real reason for your trip to this country. If it ever got out, you'd be the laughing-stock of all Madras!"

At this painful announcement Geoffrey coloured up to his crisp brown hair.

"Come now," he continued, "put it before yourself impartially. What would you think of a fellow coming to India to hunt for a lost relative, when he had been expressly warned that if he made a search he would lose four thousand a year?"

"Yes, I admit that it sounds fairly mad; so I'll keep all particulars dark; but mad or not, nothing shall stop me—or choke me off!" declared Mallender with vehement sincerity.

"All right, all right, meanwhile we will give out that you are interested in coffee in Mysore, or gold mines—yes, that is best—it's more vague," added Colonel Tallboys, with a grin. "And now, the first thing to do is to find you a first-class boy."

"Boy?"

"A servant—a full-grown man; anything up to eighty years of age is a boy here. I know of one, Anthony, he speaks Telagu, Canarese, Tamil, English, and at a pinch French! He will cook for you, valet you, wait on you, and generally run you, and do for you—he is just out of a place—his master went home last mail."

"But I only want a smart, honest chap that can rough it a bit," protested the new-comer.

"Oh, Anthony has often been in camp, and on shooting trips; he is a capital servant. My bearer will get hold of him at once, and now I'll 'phone for the car, and take you to the Club for tiffin—there you shall taste for the first time in your life the real, true, and only prawn curry."

CHAPTER III

With a quick, assured step Colonel Tallboys led the way along matted corridors, past salaaming peons, to a fine Napier car, in which he and his guest seated themselves; and escorted by a roaring wind, and clouds of thick red dust, thundered through the Wallajah gate, and sped past the Island towards the hub of Madras—its far-famed Club.

"We are rather full just now, with a crowd down from Bangalore, and one or two of Fan's English friends; Sir William Bream, a distant cousin, and Mrs. Villars, a smart lady, doing India," explained Colonel Tallboys; "you won't mind if we stick you in a tent for a day or two, will you?"

"On the contrary, I shall enjoy it of all things—I like camp life."

"You mean the manœuvres at home, all rain and mud, galloping and shouting—my little camp is another sort of show. Well, here we are," as they glided into a vast compound and drew up at the Club entrance. "Come along," said Colonel Tallboys briskly, "this way to the dining-room."

As they went upstairs, and moved forward, Mallender's popular pioneer scattered friendly greetings here and there among his acquaintances, who did not fail to notice the good-looking stranger in his wake—undoubtedly a soldier, with an easy cavalry lounge. En route to a favourite table Colonel Tallboys encountered a particular chum, to whom he introduced his cousin, murmuring in a low aside:

"Just out from home—place under repair—come to have a look round before he settles."

When repeating this information to a neighbour the friend supplemented:

"He need not trouble himself; Mrs. Tallboys will undertake his settling, and marry him off out here!"

The prospect amused them, and they laughed heartily.

Tiffin was excellent, the prawn curry maintained its high reputation; Mallender, who had breakfasted on sour grey bread, buffalo butter, and bad coffee, was ravenously hungry, and thoroughly appreciated this his first genuine meal in India, served, too, in a cool, lofty dining-room, with tempered sea-breezes, and deft, white-clad waiters.

"A fine Club, is it not?" said Colonel Tallboys with the air of a proud proprietor. "The oldest in India; we can dine three hundred, the reading-room is the same size, now we have an annexe—a ladies' club—'The Morghi Khana'—where they assemble for tea, and bridge."

"You don't allow them in here! Eh?"

"No, these premises are sacred—we are uncommonly strict and exclusive. Do you notice the servants' quaint dress? Real old Madras fashion, and the quantities of chutney offered—another speciality—but soon you will know your way about, and become acquainted with our bar trick, and Saturday's prunes and cream."

When cheese and fruit had been despatched, a move was made to the great lounge; here, reclining in a long chair, they discovered a disconsolate young man, whose bowed head and limp attitude proclaimed some recent affliction.

"Hullo, Byng, you seem a bit off colour, what's up?" demanded Colonel Tallboys; "all the ponies gone lame, or dead?"

"Nearly as bad," answered Captain Byng—A.D.C. to His Excellency the Governor—as he rose and unfolded a tall, slim figure; "Grafton has broken his arm playing some fool's trick over the mess table, and he was our mainstay."

"By Jove, that's a calamity! But"—looking round—"here is a substitute for you; my cousin, Captain Mallender, who arrived yesterday, plays polo. Geoffrey, this is Captain Byng, captain of the Chaffinches."

"Mallender! You are Mallender of the Warlocks, I'm sure," said the A.D.C. eagerly. "You played back in the team; I've seen you at Barnes and Hurlingham,—this is a piece of luck!"

"But I'm quite out of practice," Mallender declared; "haven't had a stick in my hand for months! Besides, I've no ponies. You are very kind, but I'm no use."

Long before he had ceased to speak his protest was drowned in an animated duet between two voices, discussing ways and means.

Colonel Tallboys was anxious to secure a congenial occupation for his elusive guest, and Captain Byng, in this hard-hitting player, saw visions of victory instead of defeat. At least he was now assured of making a strong fight against the Chokras from Ooty and the famous Marauders from Bangalore.

Within three minutes the matter had been decided; Mallender's objections were offered to deaf ears; the question of ponies, practice, and, if it came to that, kit, was disposed of with almost contemptible ease!

"I'll expect you out at Guindy to practice to-morrow at six-thirty sharp," was Byng's authoritative announcement; "you shall try some jolly good ponies, Malabar and Chutney and Cossack—eh, Colonel? What's your weight?"

"Eleven stone—I'm afraid I put up something on board ship."

"Oh, you'll be all right; we have a nice ground in topping order, and our men are as keen as mustard. I," drawing a long breath, "breathe again."

Byng's enthusiasm proved infectious; Mallender, a lover of the game, soon threw himself into the subject with the zest and simplicity of a schoolboy, and listened with the profoundest interest to all particulars concerning the five competing teams.

"With a week's hard practice I might be useful," he admitted, "anyway, I'll do my very best. I suppose you play eight minutes a chukker?"

Colonel Tallboys, who had been a silent and attentive looker-on, now interposed.

"I say, Byng, I'll leave Mallender in your hands for racquets, billiards, and talk. I've got a heap of work to do, very important letters, and must get back to the office at once. Geoffrey, I'll call here for you at half-past five—or six. Keep your eye on him, Byng!" he added with a laugh as he hurried out of the smoking-room.

"Your cousin?" said Byng, as he offered a box of Trichis.

"Yes, one of my few relations—I've not seen him for fourteen years."

"Ah! I wish to goodness I could say the same of some of mine!" rejoined the A.D.C., throwing himself back in his luxurious club chair, and striking a match. "Let me tell you that your kinsman is a rare good sort—one of the real, sporting, open-handed lot that, I'm sorry to say, are getting a bit scarce. He does you rattling well, likes to have his house full—sometimes the guests overflow into tents! He's awfully popular, too, and it's not cupboard love! Latterly he has given up riding races, and his Missus bars polo; but he is a capital racquet player, and as for dancing, there isn't a girl in the place who wouldn't throw me over for a turn with him. You are staying there—Hooper's Gardens."

"Is that what it's called?"

"Yes, but mind you, it's not like our Grosvenor Gardens, or Chesterfield Gardens, at home; these houses—sort of nabobs' palaces—built by merchants in the Fort, were where they took refuge during the long-shore winds, such as we have to-day. There is a big dinner on to-night. By the way, you have seen Mrs. Tallboys?"

"No, not yet."

"One of the best! Awfully rich, but, bar the hospitality, you'd swear she had not a sou; keeps a sort of Home of Rest for Invalids, and a Matrimonial Agency for girls; what she gives to charity on the quiet would pay for a polo club—or run a racing stable."

"Great Scott!" ejaculated Mallender.

"Well, to-morrow I'll expect you out at Guindy, A.D.C.'s quarters. We will have a practice, you can write your name in the book, and in the cool of the evening I'll drive you in—how's that?"

"All right, you're very kind."

"Not a bit of it, you are going to get me out of a big hole. The season is in full swing, you are just in the nick of time."

"But I'm not here for society; I'm going up-country on—er—business."

"Not you!" with a derisive laugh. "Mrs. Tallboys will freeze on to you, you'll be one of her boys, she loves boys and girls, and is a shameless matchmaker, married off two of her own plain nieces—and both into the Civil Service! You'll find a wonderful atmosphere of joy and gladness about the house, such go, and good fellowship. By Jove, it flies to your head, and you have a near shave of losing it!"

"Then it's a risky place?"

"Rather; it ought to be marked with a red triangle, 'Dangerous to Bachelors.' Mrs. Tallboys has a knack of assembling original and amusing people, not to speak of the poor, and friendless. I believe she has a large assortment this week from Bangalore and Trichy. Among the collection is Mrs. Villars; she is jolly good-looking, one of the prettiest women I've ever set eyes on. I hope I shall take her in to dinner to-night."

"I hope you may," was the generous reply.

"Well, we can't sit here all day; it's too hot for racquets," said Byng, laying down the stump of his cigar; "shall we go and have a game of billiards?—I'll play you a hundred up."

CHAPTER IV

On his way to his office—and important correspondence—Colonel Tallboys made a long détour to Egmore, in order to advise, and take council with, Fanny his wife. Arrived at Hooper's Gardens, he ran up the marble stairs with enviable activity, and dashed into the boudoir, calling:

"Fan—Fan—I say, where are you, Fan?"

In immediate response, a door opened, and Mrs. Tallboys appeared; a stately figure, clad in a flowing white dressing-gown; yet, in spite of her deshabille, this lady must be accorded a formal, and particular introduction.

Ten years previously, when at home on leave, Major Tallboys elected to take the waters at Harrogate—more as a precaution than otherwise. Here, an idle stranger in the smoking-room of a great hotel, he foregathered with a good-looking, genial neighbour; he liked his face, approved his clothes, and admired his boots. They discussed the weather, racing, and forthcoming meetings, and finally drifted into that absorbing and dangerous mäelstrom—politics. Luckily they were of the same mind, and the unanimity of their opinions, the warmth of their convictions, and mutual detestations, firmly cemented the acquaintance. The agreeable stranger turned out to be Mr. Joseph Bond, a cotton broker from Liverpool, who subsequently presented Major Tallboys to his party. The party was composed of his wife, her sister, Mrs. Tubbs, and a cousin; the latter a pale, lank, dejected lady in mourning. Mrs. Bond and Mrs. Tubbs were of a different type; fine big women, boisterous, and loud of voice, who dressed in the last shriek of fashion, and smoked cigarettes at all hours of the day. When her hilarious companions departed for long motor trips, Miss Bond, abandoned to her own resources, sat reading or sewing in the lounge—or sedately paced the grounds in an unbecoming hat, heavily swathed in crêpe. Major Tallboys, confined to the town by the exigencies of a strict cure,—being naturally sociable and talkative,—made civil overtures to this neglected, and solitary damsel. His manner was attractive, his appearance prepossessing, and as the pair strolled about, he gathered that she had recently experienced a bereavement, and was now alone in the world.

For his part, the dapper little officer volunteered copious information respecting India, and his experiences; he enjoyed the sound of his own voice, whether on parade or otherwise, and in Fanny Bond found an eager, and enraptured listener. As her companion described the glories of the East, its dawns and sunsets, people and pleasures, and drew vivid pictures of marches up-country, and the racing triumphs and hair-breadth adventures of his youth, the lady's interest was gratifying and profound.

In an irresponsible burst of confidence she confided to him, that it had ever been the dream of her life to see the world, and, above all, India.

Day after day, these walks and monologues were prolonged. Her cousins, who had not failed to notice the said walks and talks, tormented their helpless victim with winks, nudges, and vulgar and incessant chaff, that made poor Fanny blush to tears.

When discussing family matters in the privacy of her bedroom, Mrs. Bond had said to her sister: "If the dandy little officer has taken a fancy to Fan—it will be a very good business!"

"Too good to be true," interjected Mrs. Tubbs. "No such luck."

"It's rather a puzzle to know what to do with her; she can't go back to that awful little house in Tranmere, and, besides, she's too young to live alone, and set up a cat and a parrot."

"Yes, poor thing, she's had a starved life, and is as timid as a mouse."

"No wonder, after her awful time with Uncle James," declared Mrs. Bond; "such pinching and screwing, and scolding, and badgering, as was never known. You leave the business to me, and I'll have a little talk with her friend, and let him know that Fan has a bit of money—and no near relations!"

In order to carry out her project, that same evening, after dinner, Major Tallboys' particular horror—the loudest and showiest of the sisters—invited him to come into the conservatory for a smoke, and tell her something about India.

He obeyed with prompt gallantry,—though secretly alarmed. This bold-eyed matron with a voice of brass had, undoubtedly, something up her sleeve.

After a few vague enquiries respecting heat, and snakes, Mrs. Bond, assuming a more confidential attitude, took the plunge.

"Do you know, Major Tallboys, you have made Cousin Fanny just crazy about India. Poor dear, she has seen so little of the world."

"So I gather from what she told me."

"I'll bet you a pair of gloves she never told you the reason," the lady went on impressively, "or that she has been a slave and a martyr to a terrible old father for ten years! Poor Fan was his drudge and nurse, and yet she never complained—though it was a dog's life."

"Some dogs haven't half a bad time," argued her companion (who was thinking of his own happy pack and their assiduous "dog boy").

"Not those that are chained in back yards," declared the matchmaker. "Fan was always on the chain."

"Did no one interfere?"

"What can you do, between a father and a daughter?—though he was a Pharaoh—not a father. Besides, we were all mortally afraid of Uncle James, and never went near him. His temper was something frightful—just like a tiger with the toothache!"

"How exceedingly unpleasant! Was he always in this deplorable condition?" enquired Major Tallboys.

"No, he lost a lot of money in some shipping firm, and that soured him for life. He dropped all his friends, and gave up a fine house in Prince's Park, Liverpool, and went over to a dingy little terrace in Tranmere. We never could make out, if he was very poor, or just a miser. I know, he only took a weekly paper, and gave Fan ten pounds a year to dress on. Now she is free, and her own mistress, she does not know what to do with her liberty, and believes she is grieving for the old man."

Here Mrs. Bond paused for breath, and to dab the stump of her cigarette in the ash-tray.

"His affairs were in a shocking state," she resumed, "one would think a monkey had kept his books; but my Joe says there will be a good bit of money, and that Fan will have between four and five hundred a year!"

Major Tallboys liked Fan for herself, and had hitherto believed her to be of the genus "poor relation." He noticed that she was the Cinderella of the family, who ran messages, was left out of expeditions, and evidently held of no account. Four or five hundred a year would be an agreeable addition to a major's pay and allowances. He chucked the end of his cigar into a shrub, and looked Mrs. Bond squarely in the face.

"And I tell you this," she continued eagerly, "Fan is the kindest, simplest, and most unselfish of women; whoever gets her"—patting his sleeve with a hateful significance—"will have the best of wives!"

"I am sure of that," he agreed in a studiously bland voice, but his air was cold and detached, his eyes gleamed frostily, under his somewhat heavy brows. He was fond of Fanny, but he had no intention of being managed and rushed by this great, blowsy woman, and abruptly turned the conversation by remarking:

"I see by the evening paper they have a heat wave in Berlin; how fortunate we are in our weather!"

"It was no go," the disconcerted matron whispered to her sister; "I did my big best, but he wouldn't rise—no, not even when I mentioned her income! He got quite lofty, and shut me up by talking of the weather. So now I can see Fan in our spare back, at Waterloo, for life; I shall charge her four guineas a week, and laundry. After all, she will be useful! Since Nan has her hair up she is a regular handful, and must have some sort of keeper or chaperone to take her to her classes in Liverpool."

"Nan is as clever as they make 'em, and no fool," remarked her aunt. "Pity she's so ugly," she added with that unaffected candour habitual among near relatives; "I'm afraid you'll never get her off—no more than Fan—she's so cocksey, and so blunt."

Meanwhile, behind a newspaper in the smoking-room, Major Tallboys was holding a serious mental debate. Of late, as he made his leisured and fastidious toilet, and preened himself before a glass, he noticed with grief and pain the deeper furrows in his forehead, and the whitening of his brown hair. Yes, he was getting on, and if he ever meant to marry, there was no time to be lost! His mind's eye cast a nervous glance towards the army of elderly and old men who rented rooms near the Club—their only home; men, without family ties or affection, their whole interest bounded by the daily press; desolate poor fellows, who were tended in sickness by a landlady, or a professional nurse, and passed out of life, unsped, and unwept.

Fanny Bond was amiable and sympathetic; amazingly well read too!—a free library had been her only solace and joy. Children and dogs adored her; her appreciation of himself was unquestionable! She had a slim, graceful figure, a certain amount of good looks—masses of dark hair, a pair of confiding brown eyes, slightly prominent, but otherwise perfect teeth. Her relatives however were a serious drawback;—in fact, Mrs. Bond's impudent interference had gone near to shattering her cousin's prospects—but down in his little battered heart there was a warm corner for Fanny; and a nice-looking, unselfish woman, with five hundred a year, was by no means to be despised.

Night brings wisdom, and the morning after his interview with Mrs. Joe, arrayed in a creaseless suit and wearing his most becoming tie, Major Tallboys invited Miss Bond "to come for a turn in the garden?" By degrees, he conducted the conversation to her favourite subject, travel.

"I believe we are going to Switzerland this winter," she announced, "and I cannot tell you how much I look forward to my first trip abroad."

The pair were now pacing a retired walk, overshadowed by a rustic pergola veiled in masses of pink roses,—one of the glories of the hotel garden. Major Tallboys, casting a searching glance over his surroundings, came to an abrupt halt. Although a ladies' man, and the hero of countless flirtations, the good-looking, agreeable little soldier was about to make his first serious proposal!

This resolution had been hardening in his mind ever since he had swallowed his early morning cup of tea.

"How would you like to go to India?" he enquired of his companion.

Colouring vividly, she exclaimed, "Oh, I should like it better than anything in the world, but I shall never get the chance!"

She looked surprisingly handsome, with her glowing cheeks, and soft dark eyes; the plain, ill-made alpaca entirely failed to conceal her slender grace.

"Well, Miss Bond," clearing his throat and looking at her steadily, "I offer you the chance here and now. Fanny, I am greatly attached to you—will you be my wife?" and he tendered a thin, sun-dried hand.

For a moment Fanny felt stunned; she stared at her suitor with stupefied incredulity, then burst into tears.

This sudden opening of the gates of the world and life, so far transcended her humble hopes. In spite of her cousins' crude and brutal chaff, Fanny had never thought of the Major's attentions as otherwise than the good-nature of an idle man, who noticed that she was forlorn, and a little out of it—the word "neglected" never occurred to her simple heart.

Tears such as Miss Bond's are quickly dried—on this occasion they were dealt with by the Major's own delicate silk handkerchief. For some time, she and her companion remained talking very earnestly to one another under the pergola, but what they said was known only to eavesdropping "Dorothy Perkins" and her pretty sisters.

Within half an hour, an engaged couple—each decorated with a pink rose—turned their happy faces towards the hotel. As they approached with lagging steps, they were "spotted" by Mrs. Joe, who happened to be extended in a verandah chair, smoking the inevitable cigarette, and mentally selecting her autumn toilette. In a second, she had realised the situation, and springing to her feet, upsetting an ink-bottle and ash-tray, she clapped her hands in noisy acclamation.

It was arranged that the wedding was to take place within a month—since there was really nothing to wait for, and the bridegroom wished the bride to see something of her own country, before sailing for India.

Bond himself was a good fellow, but his wife, sister-in-law, and mother-in-law—no. To Major Tallboys it was unbearable that he should be called "Freddy," in season and out of season, and publicly chaffed and kissed, by the overwhelming Mrs. Joe. The trousseau was selected in Liverpool—that city of fine shops—and Major Tallboys gave his fiancée a diamond ring, an unpretentious pendant, and much valuable advice. The honeymoon was spent in London, with excursions to Devon, Oxford, and Warwickshire; the newly married pair also made a round of the theatres, picture galleries, and museums. Great indeed are the marvels that dress, and a good conceit of oneself, can achieve. Joe Bond, meeting his cousin in a shop, actually failed to recognise in this elegant lady, with rustling skirts, a black-feathered hat, white gloves, and beautifully dressed hair, the dowdy and deprecating Fan!

Shortly before they sailed, the happy couple received intelligence calculated to still further increase their bliss.

The affairs of the late James Bond, merchant and shipmaster, had been wound up, and proved that he had been a miser, and, like his kind, had died a wealthy man. "Frances Ann," his only child, was heiress to something over five thousand a year.

Mrs. Tallboys' relatives received these tidings with unaffected consternation, and annoyance. Here was Fanny, a rich woman, married to a stuck-up little dandy who was carrying her and her fine fortune out of the country. The capital of this fortune would have made a noble bulwark to the house of "Bond, Tubbs, and Co." cotton brokers, and enabled them to extend their business into hitherto undreamt of regions. Had the Major any inkling of this hidden treasure when he proposed to Fan? The base suspicion was unfounded—nevertheless it rankled. Freddy Tallboys was equally thunderstruck by this amazing windfall; as for his wife—recalling long years of grey poverty—she could not realise her tens of thousands, and felt as if the whole world had been turned upside down! However, her clever and practical husband promptly grasped the change in their circumstances, interviewed lawyers, bankers, stockbrokers, purchased for Fan a string of pearls, a superb landau, and a supply of plate and china,—suitable for entertaining on a generous scale.

Arriving from furlough with a bride whose fortune had been magnified to millions, his many friends welcomed and applauded clever Freddy. He had waited to some purpose! At one time it had been feared that he was about to be snapped up by a girl from Bellary, a hard-riding, red-haired spin, without a pice!

The return to India, a familiar environment, and a full and busy life, had worked a transformation in Fanny's husband, and placed him before her in a still more dazzling light.

On furlough, this naturally keen and busy officer found himself a nobody!—idle, bored, unrecognised, and consequently inclined to be irritable, super-critical, and dyspeptic. Once more in harness (a nice staff appointment) and surrounded by familiar scenes and old associates, he was a different person full of high spirits, buoyant energy, and bonhomie.

His bride recognised his importance in his own circle, his popularity among men, and looked with awe upon orderlies, brass-bound chuprassies, long official envelopes, and the ever-arriving telegram. A Freddy, wearing a clanking sword and gold spurs, was new to her, and indeed Major Tallboys in full-dress uniform (a pattern to his rank) presented a remarkably dignified, and soldier-like, appearance.

After a short stay in Madras, a bungalow in the Neilgherries was Fanny's first home. It was at Ooty that she engaged her Indian retinue, unpacked her glass and china, and set up her own dog. Her husband's friends, so well known by name, had unanimously offered her a hearty welcome; these were mostly military people, with easy, agreeable manners. Her garden was fragrant with roses and violets, the view from the verandah of Cranford Hall was unsurpassed, and how the sun shone! Caught into a whirl of congenial society, Frances Ann found herself in another world.

She realised that she owed this translation from suburbia and gloom to sunshine and happiness, to Freddy, and worshipped him accordingly. To behold him of a hunting morning, red-coated, admirably mounted, "witching the field with matchless horsemanship," was a sight that filled his wife with a pride and admiration, she was at no pains to conceal.

Under her husband's guidance and encouragement, Fanny cast away her shyness, and learnt to play tennis, to drive a pair of hard-mouthed ponies, and to entertain with self-confidence and grace. So adaptable was she, that by the end of a year, there was no more popular hostess than Mrs. Tallboys.

Her kind heart, the memory of her dreary youth, and gratitude for present good fortune, combined to make her tenderly sympathetic,—especially towards forlorn, friendless girls, and all sorts, and conditions, of her own sex.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Tallboys is figuratively waiting in the doorway, her long dark hair hanging in two thick plaits, her eyes fixed interrogatively upon her lord and master.

"I've had such a morning!" she began, "going through the rooms, arranging for people, sending the new-comers into dinner according to precedence, doing the flowers and menus, that I'm dead, and am taking forty winks before they all arrive. Is there anything you want altered, Freddy?"

"No, no, my love; I've just rushed in for a second to tell you about young Mallender. I couldn't say much on the telephone," and in a couple of pithy sentences, he had laid before her Geoffrey's extraordinary enterprise.

"Of course, it must be stopped! He is mad to start off at once. I've handed him over to Byng at the Club, and stuck him to play in the tournament; this will give us breathing-time."

"Breathing-time," repeated his wife, whose astonishment had carried her into an arm-chair.

"Here, read this," handing her the precious letter, "and you will understand the whole position. I know you are safe, Fan, and can be trusted with a family secret."

For a moment he stood watching her closely as she sat engrossed in the sheet of thin yellow paper; then he fidgetted restlessly round the room, straightening a book here, an ornament there.

"What astounding news!" she exclaimed at last; "can you believe it? Do you think it's pucka? or a practical joke?"

"I believe the letter to be genuine," he answered decisively, "and if the boy—a very nice young fellow—persists in his folly, he will be made to pay for it! Four thousand a year is no blind nut, and I intend to put every possible obstacle in his way; not merely because I am heir, but because I like him."

"What sort of obstacles do you suggest, Freddy?"

"Amusements, distractions, polo, balls, pretty faces. We will knock this nonsense out of his head, and take him to the Hills when we move; there he can shoot and hunt, and you might marry him off to some nice girl; by the time the roof is on, they can return and live at Mallender!"

"Ah, so that's your programme!" exclaimed his wife. "Well, of course, I shall be only too delighted to help; but perhaps your cousin is not so easily managed, and married off, as you suppose!"

"Oh, he'll be all right. I fancy he got a bit hipped, living all alone. I leave you to tackle him, Fan; this sort of job is your speciality. Keep the boy incessantly occupied and entertained, and, whatever you do, my dear girl, don't let him slip through your fingers!"

And with this emphatic injunction Colonel Tallboys waved a valedictory hand, and disappeared.

CHAPTER V

Surrounded by a group to whom Byng had introduced him, Mallender was enjoying himself thoroughly, listening and talking to keen young men of the same upbringing and service—his contemporaries.

Six months at Mallender had undoubtedly depressed his spirits. After the death of his father, lawyers, surveyors, and contractors were his sole associates; for of late years the Court had fallen into oblivion; old friends had died or removed to other neighbourhoods, and a new generation arisen which knew not the heir. It was out of the question to invite guests to his shabby dilapidated home, where the water streamed through the roof, and there was no shooting. This unexpected change to a bright glimpse of his former life, proved inexpressibly welcome to Geoffrey: here were men well known to him by name, and actually an old school-fellow, who was quartered in the Fort. As they sat smoking, and discussing shop, racing, polo, and mutual friends, in such congenial atmosphere, the new-comer had for the moment completely lost sight of what he mentally called "his job." Colonel Tallboys, when he arrived, instantly grasped the situation. Here was Geoffrey full of animation and enthusiasm, debating and criticising the entries for Punchestown. This was as it should be—the lure was already working!

To tell the truth, although Mallender had spent five happy hours within the Club, these hours had passed so rapidly, that it seemed incredible when his cousin announced that "it was after six o'clock, and time to make a start."

The transformation of the outward scene appeared equally surprising. The wind had died away, the breakers merely sobbed softly on the beach; a clear Eastern night was full of stars, and the light of electric lamps penetrated into every corner. Numbers of motors were parked in the vast compound; in some sat various gay and smart ladies, sipping iced drinks, eating devilled biscuits, and holding informal meetings with their men friends. Now and then a car would slip out of the crowd, and take the Mem Sahib and her cavalier for a turn up the Guindy Road, or along the marine front,—whilst the lady's husband was finishing an interminable rubber of auction bridge. It had been one o'clock when Mallender left the Fort—at an hour when all Madras was under the spell of noonday quiet; servants were "eating rice," animals resting, the very crows and hawks temporarily suppressed—but now the city was awake; the Gorah bazaar, and Georgetown, were humming like bee-hives, heavily-laden trams, crammed with passengers, clanged and rumbled up and down the Mount Road, the old established "Europe" shops, such as Orr's, Spencer's, and Oak's, were brilliantly alight and filled with customers; motors and bicycles skimmed hither and thither—luxurious carriages drawn by steppers rolled by, whilst picturesque foot-passengers, Jutkas, and leisurely bullock-carts gave a touch of local colour to the scene.

Such was the traffic, that it was a considerable time before Colonel Tallboys' Napier could extricate itself and thread its smooth way by Royàpetta towards Egmore. As the car turned sharply through an entrance gate and up the long drive to Hooper's Gardens, Mallender was both impressed and surprised. Here was no mere bungalow, but the lofty stately dwelling of a one-time merchant prince—reared in an age when space, and rupees, were amply available.

"Hooper's Gardens" stood surrounded by fifty acres of short, coarse grass, a white, two-storied mansion with pillared verandahs, a flat roof, and imposing portico. Against a dense background of palms and shrubberies were pitched a group of tents.