The Indian Bangle. Fergus Hume

I would like better than to follow up a case like this."

      "Well, surely you have the time?"

      "I have not; I am giving you what spare moments I have."

      "You are--now. But at Casterwell Miss Bellairs, I guess, will see a good deal more of you than I shall. The moth and the candle, eh?"

      "Not at all, Aldean; your simile is quite inapt. I am not a moth, neither can Miss Bellairs be compared to a candle. She is not the kind of girl to scorch any poor butterfly that flutters round her."

      "All right, old chap, you needn't take one quite so seriously. But as you do, I may as well be serious too. Do you know I am thinking of getting married?"

      "No; that's news to me. And whom do you intend to honour so far, may I ask?"

      "Miss Ostergaard, if she concurs." Aldean heaved a huge sigh. "By George! she's a ripping girl."

      "Certainly, you might do worse," replied Laurence, musingly. "She's a very good girl, and clever too. Does she reciprocate?"

      "I don't know; she laughs at me."

      "That may be just her method of showing her affection. She will be hard to please if she is not satisfied with a titled Hercules like you."

      "Oh, I don't think she bothers in the least about the title," said his lordship, dolefully, "she is quite a radical, a--a--what do you call it--Anarchist, you know. Dr. Drabble has been converting her. He's a proselytising beast, that Drabble."

      "Oh, that's all rubbish. 'In the spring a young girl's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love'--not anarchy."

      "But it isn't spring," said the literal Aldean, "and Miss Ostergaard isn't the girl to marry for rank."

      "Then make love to her properly, and she'll marry you for love."

      "I wish I could; but I'm not a clever chap like you, Mallow."

      "My dear boy, I'm not clever; on the contrary, I'm a fool--a perfect fool, for do I not love Miss Bellairs like an idiot, when all the while I know well she is going to marry this Carson man from India?"

      "So she is; that's queer," said Aldean, reflectively.

      "Queer! how do you mean?"

      "Oh, nothing, old man. I am thinking of this murder case; and the fact of both men coming from India struck me, that's all. You see Carson's just on his way home now."

      "Is he? I didn't know that," said Mallow, alertly.

      "Yes; Miss Slarge--you know, the Babylonian, mark-of-the-beast woman--told me that her sister in Bombay had written Carson was on his way home by the P. and O. liner Pharaoh."

      "The Pharaoh arrived some time back," said Mallow, gloomily. "He must be at Casterwell by this time."

      "He was not there two days ago when I ran up to town."

      "Well, it must be quite two weeks since the Pharaoh arrived. What an ardent lover the chap must be. I wish I stood in his shoes, that's all. I wouldn't let the grass grow under them on the way to my 'own true love'--not that Miss Bellairs can strictly be said to stand in that relation to a man she has never set eyes upon. The very fact that she has to marry him should be sufficient to make her hate him."

      "By Jove! What a rum go it would be if Carson turned out to be the man murdered in Athelstane Place!"

      Mallow stared. "What on earth put such a wild idea into your head?" he said.

      "I don't know; nor do I know why you should be so ready to call it wild. The man who was killed came from India--as you say----"

      "I don't say so. It is the theory of the Morning Planet."

      "It is just possible that it might be Carson, seeing that he hasn't turned up at Casterwell," continued Aldean, not heeding Mallow's interruption.

      "Really, Jim, I didn't credit you with such a vivid imagination."

      "Oh, of course it's merely an idea, Mallow. But what strikes me is that if Carson arrived two weeks ago, he certainly ought to have put in an appearance at Casterwell before this, if only out of curiosity to see his future wife."

      "My dear fellow, Carson may need a kit before he calls on Miss Bellairs. He surely would wish to create a good impression, and I don't suppose he would present himself in sandal-wood scented clothes."

      "I never said he would. But even so, that wouldn't take him a fortnight."

      Mallow leaned back and pinched his chin reflectively. He had no great faith in his friend's prognostications, still he could not help being struck by the suggestion coupling Carson with the victim of Athelstane Place. It was certainly queer that this man from India should be two weeks in England without fulfilling the very object for which his journey had been made. He had arrived in the Pharaoh on the 24th of June the murder had been committed on the 26th, yet so far he had not presented himself at Casterwell. The prime facts certainly coincided. It was very odd; Mallow could not deny that.

      "But the idea is incredible," he said aloud. "Hundreds of men arrive from India every week; besides, Carson never was in England in his life--Miss Bellairs told me so. Why should he be murdered immediately on his arrival--where was the motive? You have found a mare's nest, Jim."

      "I dare say," replied Aldean, stolidly: "it's a bare idea."

      "A very wild and a very absurd one, my boy. There is nothing to connect the sandal-wood man (as you call him) with Carson."

      "Perhaps not, Mallow. But if Carson does not turn up soon I shall begin to think that my idea is not so ridiculous as you say."

      "If he does not turn up," repeated Mallow with emphasis, "that's just it, but he will turn up if it is only to take from me the only girl I ever really cared about--a trite saying no doubt, but a true one in this case."

      "Every fellow says the same thing," said Aldean, as the train slowed down into Reading Station. "Here we are."

      Casterwell lies--as every one knows or should know, seeing that it is one of the prettiest villages in the home counties--amongst the Berkshire hills, some ten miles from Reading. Lord Aldean's cart was waiting for himself and his friend. Mallow walked leisurely out of the station into the sunshine, and watched the porter transfer his portmanteau to Aldean's groom. Whilst he was standing on the edge of the pavement a plump little man, rosy in face and neat in dress, stopped short before him. He carried a black bag, but dropped this to hold out a friendly hand to Mallow.

      "Well, well," he chirped, just like an amiable robin; "and who would have thought of seeing you here, Mr. Mallow? You're here on business, I presume?"

      "I have come down to stay with Lord Aldean at Casterwell, Mr. Dimbal," replied Mallow, graciously.

      "Miss Bellairs' busi---- Ah, here is his lordship. How d'ye do, my lord? On the road to Casterwell, eh? I'm going there myself."

      "To see Miss Bellairs, did you say?" asked Mallow, impatiently. "There's nothing wrong, I hope?"

      "Good gracious, no. Why should there be anything wrong?"

      "Why, indeed," said Aldean, laughing. "Lawyers and wrong never go together."

      "Ha, ha! very good, my lord; but we are a much-maligned profession. No, Mr. Mallow, nothing is wrong with Miss Bellairs. On the contrary, everything is very right. I bring her the good news that Mr. Carson has arrived."

      "Oh," said Mallow, with a glance at Aldean, "have you seen him?"

      "Yes, he called yesterday at my office, and to-morrow he comes to Casterwell to see his future wife. Well, well; good-day, good-day, I see my fly, I must be off. Good-day, Mr. Mallow; my lord, good-day," and the little lawyer bustled off.

      "So Carson isn't the sandal-wood man, after all," observed Aldean.

      "No, God forgive me! I wish he were," replied Mallow, and frowned.