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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 mea 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?"
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