A black tray, with cold meat and some very sour bad bread, was borne in, and a place cleared on the dusty table by the joint efforts of the sulky bearer and a khitmaghar, with a cast in his eye, and the very leanest figure Mark had ever beheld. However, he was much too hungry to be fastidious, and devoured the refreshments with a capital appetite. Meanwhile, after their custom, the two men stood by in silence with folded arms, staring with concentrated attention and unremitting gaze until the conclusion of the meal. It was quite dark when the bearer reappeared, and, throwing open the door, announced in a deeply resentful tone-- “The sahib will see the sahib.” Mark followed the fat, square, aggressive-looking back, till he came to a curtained archway, and was ushered into a lofty dim room, so dim, that he could barely discern the figure which rose to greet him--a tall bent man in a dressing-gown. “Mark, my boy, it was like you to come so soon,” said a shaky voice. “Like what you were as a child,” and he held out both his hands eagerly. “I only got your letter at four o’clock this morning, sir,” said his son. “I hope you are better?” “I am for the present. I sent for you by a private messenger post-haste, because I believed that I had but a few hours to live, and I longed desperately to see you.” “I have been hoping you would send for me for the last two months. I have been waiting, as you know, in Shirani.” “Yes--yes--yes! Sometimes the temptation was almost irresistible, but I fought against it; for why should I cloud over your young life? However, I had no choice; the situation has been forced upon me--and you. My faithful companion, Osman, died ten days ago, but we will talk of this another time. These voices in my head interrupt me; especially that woman’s voice,” with an irritable gesture. His son could not, for the life of him, think of any immediate or appropriate remark, and sat in embarrassed silence, and then Major Jervis continued-- “You are six and twenty now--a grown man, Mark, and speak like a man! I have not had a good look at your face yet. I wonder if it is the same face as that of my own honest-eyed boy?” The answer would be prompt, if he so pleased, for the lean khitmaghar now staggered in under the weight of a large evil-smelling “argand” lamp (a pattern extinct everywhere save in remote parts of India). Mark looked over eagerly at his father. His head was bent in his hands. Presently he raised it, and gazed at his son with a look of unmistakable apprehension. His son felt as if he were confronting an utter stranger; he would never have recognized this grey-haired cadaverous old man as the handsome stalwart sabreur he had parted with sixteen years previously. He looked seventy years of age. His features were sharpened as if by constant pain, his colour was ashen, his hands emaciated, his eyes sunken; he wore a camel’s-hair dressing-gown, and a pair of shabby slippers.