“Oh, Telemachus has his head screwed on pretty tight, and he will look after Waring--the pupil will take care of the teacher. He is a real good sort, that boy. I wonder if his people know how old Clarence used to race, and carry on and gamble at the lotteries, and generally play the devil when he was out here?” “Not they!” emphatically. “He owes me one hundred rupees this three years, but he is such a tremendous Bahadur now, that I am ashamed to remind him of such a trifling sum. I sincerely hope that he has turned over a new leaf and is a reformed character. What do you say, Crompton?” “I say ‘Amen,’ with all my heart,” was the prompt response. Mark Jervis had gone straight to the agents, Bostock & Bell’s, the day he had landed in Bombay, and asked for his father’s address. He only obtained it with difficulty and after considerable delay. The head of the firm, in a private interview, earnestly entreated him to keep the secret, otherwise they would get into trouble, as Major Jervis was a _peculiar_ man and most mysterious about his affairs, which were now entirely managed by a Mr. Cardozo. Major Jervis had not corresponded with them personally, for years. He then scribbled something on a card, which he handed to the new arrival, who eagerly read, “Mr. Jones, Hawal-Ghât, via Shirani, N.W.P.” The major’s son despatched a letter with this superscription by the very next post. CHAPTER XI. A RESERVED LADY. A hot moonless night towards the end of March, and the up-mail from Bombay to Calcutta has come to a standstill. The glare from the furnace and the carriage lamps lights up the ghostly looking telegraph-posts, the dusty cactus hedge, and illuminates a small portion of the surrounding jungle. Anxiously gazing eyes see no sign of a station, or even of a signalman’s hut, within the immediate glare--and beyond it there looms a rocky, barren tract, chiefly swallowed up in inscrutable darkness. There is a babel of men’s voices, shrill and emotional, and not emanating from European throats, a running of many feet, and above all is heard the snorting of the engine and the dismal shrieks of the steam whistle. “What does it all mean?” inquired a silvery treble, and a fluffy head leant out of a first-class ladies’ compartment. “Nothing to be alarmed about,” responded a pleasant tenor voice from the permanent way. “There has been a collision between two goods trains about a mile ahead, and the line is blocked.” “Any one killed?” she drawled. “Only a couple of niggers,” rejoined the pleasant voice, in a cheerful key. “Dear me!” exclaimed the lady with sudden animation; “why, Captain Waring, surely it cannot be you!” “Pray why not?” now climbing up on the foot-board. “And do I behold Mrs. Bellett?” as the head and shoulders of a good-looking man appeared at the window, and looked into the carriage, which contained a mountain of luggage, two ladies, a monkey, and a small green parrot.