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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?"