"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
