"No, sir!" thundered Drabble. "No legal crime, if you please."
"Anarchists prefer illegal murder," said Semberry, smiling grimly.
"And no punishment to follow," remarked Carson, arranging his sling.
"Except that of their own conscience," chimed in Olive.
"No Anarchist possesses one," said Tui; at which all present burst out laughing at the expression on Dr. Drabble's face.
In the midst of this merriment Miss Slarge returned with the letter and an apology.
"It took me some time to find," she explained to Carson. "Listen; this is how my sister describes you. Perhaps it is better not to give it to you in my sister's own words, for her style is founded upon Dr. Johnson's, and is apt to be prolix."
"Paraphrase the description Miss Slarge," said Mallow.
"Mr. Carson," said Miss Slarge, glancing at the letter, "is twenty-five years of age, gentle, well-bred, not without parts, and modest."
The gentleman in question clicked his heels together in quite a foreign fashion, and bowed low. Mallow noticed the continental air of the whole action, and remembered it.
"He is tall, slender, elegant in shape, of a swart complexion, inherited from his mother, and his eyes and moustache are of the deepest black. He looks like an Italian."
"By George, Carson! Mrs. Purcell describes you exactly," said the Major; and in his heart Mallow, who had followed the description closely, was obliged to confess that this was true.
"He is delicate in health, and has a weak heart."
"I know that to my cost," sighed Carson, "and a swollen hand. Does Mrs. Purcell mention that fact, yes?"
"She does, Mr. Carson, and she also says that you are effeminate."
"Ha, ha!" bellowed Drabble--"effeminate, eh?"
Carson reddened. "And why, Miss Slarge?"
"Because you wear a bracelet."
"That is true enough," assented the young man; "but I can't get it off, and it has been on my wrist all my life--in fact, ever since it was placed there by my ayah."
"Oh, do show us the bracelet!" cried Tui. She had a thorough woman's love for jewellery.
"Bracelet, hum! bangle, India!" muttered the Major, and tugged his moustache.
"Show me the bangle, Angus," said Olive, persuasively; and Mallow winced.
Mr. Carson with great care, and evidently with some pain, took his arm from the sling and drew up his shirt cuff. Loosely encircling his wrist appeared a broad band of pale gold, elaborately wrought with the hideous forms of three Hindoo gods.
As he displayed it, Miss Slarge read aloud the description of the ornament from her sister's letter:--
"It is a broad band of ductile gold, curiously wrought with the idol figures of the Hindoo trinity: Bramah, Siva, and Vishnu, interwoven with the sacred lotus-flower, and other heathen symbols."
"Most extraordinary," said Mallow, looking at it; "good trade-mark, eh, Mr. Carson? None genuine without this device."
"What do you mean, sir?" cried Carson, pulling down his sleeve with an angry jerk.
"Mean! why, what should I mean?" replied the Irishman, and smiled innocently.
CHAPTER VI.
THE REVEREND MANNERS BROCK.
The young men were seated on the terrace in the warm summer twilight. The plains of corn beyond the dark trees were filled with floating shadows, and the pale radiance of the long-set sun still lingered in the western skies. Overhead a few stars shone with mellow lustre in the warm, purple arch; but the moon had not yet rolled her wheel over the distant hills, and the dusk was faintly luminous, so that the landscape was indistinctly visible, as through a filmy veil. There was no breath of wind, and the trees seemed to extend their opaque shadows, even to the verge of the glimmering white terrace. At intervals a nightingale filled the dusk with silvery strains, and occasionally the hoot of a distant owl sounded like depreciative criticism of the bird music. So still, so dreamy, so peacefully beautiful, it was a magic night for love and lovers, for dancing elves and poet's singing. Yet this unromantic pair were talking the crudest commonplaces--harsh music for such an hour, for such a scene. But there are times when man sympathizes with Nature as little as does she with him.
"Well, Jim," said Mallow, after a pause and a sip of warming liqueur, "it is now a week since those marplots came on the scene. What is your candid opinion?"
With a flick of his finger, Aldean sent the stump of his cigarette flying over the balustrade.
"That is what I should like to do," he said, in his deep voice; "chuck them both into space."
"I did not ask you what you would like to do to them, but what you think of them."
"They are two bounders--at least, Semberry is one."
"You are prejudiced, my James," said Mallow, coolly; "Semberry is a well-bred man, but Carson--ahem!--Carson is not a gentleman."
"In other words, Carson is not Carson."
"Upon my soul, Jim, I don't believe he is." Mallow jumped up, and balanced himself on the railing of the terrace immediately before his friend. "I don't believe he is," he repeated. "He is supposed to have come from India. Well, he knows precious little about India, although I have questioned him repeatedly. He talks with a distinct foreign accent; his every action is suggestive of continental society, and he looks like an Italian. See here, Jim"--he slipped down, clicked his heels together, and made a stiff bow from the waist--"is that English?" He mimicked Carson's speech: "You think so, yes? Is that English, Jim? I ask you plainly, is there anything English about the man?"
"Well, he isn't English, you know," was Jim's reply.
"His father was a Saxon, and, from all accounts, a public school boy, a University man, gently born and well-bred. Why isn't his son--if this man be his son--more like him?"
"The poor chap hasn't had his father's advantages, Mallow. His mother was a half-caste, and, I suppose, no pattern of breeding. He has been brought up in exile amongst niggers, and has received a scratch education. I don't see what you can expect. Carson's pretty good, considering his disadvantages."
"Confound you, Jim; don't desert to the enemy!" cried Mallow, in a huff.
"I'm not deserting, but I see both sides of the question, and you don't. You believe that the real Carson is dead, and that this man is an impostor."
"And if I do," said Mallow, defiantly, "it was you who put the idea into my head."
Aldean laughed.
"You don't usually take my suggestions so seriously," he said, smiling. "Besides, I had no proof for my assertion, and you--however much you wish to--can't find one. On the other hand, there is ample evidence to show that Carson is the man he declares himself to be. Mrs. Purcell's letter describes him exactly: he has a weak heart and an injured hand; also, he wears the golden bangle, which, as he showed Mrs. Carson in Bombay, cannot be removed. Finally, Carson has been in Semberry's company ever since he left his father's death-bed."
"Semberry is a plausible scamp," growled Mallow, biting his fingers. "I heard no good of him in India."
"Perhaps not; but a man can be a scamp without being a blackguard."
"Pooh, pooh! you split straws. That is a distinction without a difference."
"Well," rejoined Aldean, with equanimity; "let us say that a fellow can be a spendthrift and a Don Juan without being dishonest. I hardly think, Mallow, that Semberry would risk his commission and his position in the world by supporting an impostor such as you believe Carson to be."