After Zynool's departure, Mark sat down to examine certain blue books which the Judge recommended for his perusal, but the late interview rankled. He could not concentrate his attention, and thought, with a sigh, how speedily he had been brought face to face with one of the unpleasant realities of official life. Even his vanity had received a shock. Did he look so clearly on the surface a man likely to have his price? The idea was revolting. Should he tell the Collector what had occurred or would it be best to bury the incident fathoms deep, was the query which haunted him throughout the remainder of the office hours.

The Judge before leaving looked into the new Assistant's room with a friendly smile to see how he had been finding his way, and suggested that they should walk home together. Mark cheerfully assented, delighted to find that in this land of carriages one was sometimes permitted to use one's legs. The sun had lost its scorching element, and leafy Puranapore was bathed in a soft yellow radiance which reminded him of an autumn evening at home. A gentle breeze stirred the tree tops as their lengthening shadows fell on the white ribbon-like road. The twilight hour conduces to confidences, and Mark felt moved to introduce the unpleasant experience of the morning which was still uppermost in his mind, feeling that he could find no wiser confident than the trusty man of law by whose side he walked. But just as he was bracing himself to unfold the incident, he perceived Mrs. Goldring and her daughter coming towards them. Recalling her supercilious nod of the previous evening, he was surprised to receive quite a gracious greeting from the Judge's wife.

Jane, with a joyous smile, sprang forward to take her father's arm, and Mark found himself by Mrs. Goldring's side. After expatiating on the pleasures of an evening stroll, she remarked that it was unfortunate the Collector was unable to be at his office, though how she came to be aware of the fact she did not divulge. Mark had yet to learn that the station was like a glass house, all its happenings common property. It is true Mrs. Goldring did not generally lay herself out for the reception of servants' gossip after the manner of Mrs. Samptor, but her encounter with the Collector still rankled, and she decided to follow her little neighbour's methods in being on the outlook for gossip; and also, for the present, to hide her adverse feelings towards the new Assistant so that, if possible, she might sow discord between him and his chief. Having heard from her ayah that the Collector was "resting" to-day, she determined that she would waylay the young man, and give him some hint of the foibles of his master. She certainly succeeded in startling Mark when she suddenly glanced at him keenly, saying:

"You had a visit from that chief of snakes, Zynool, this morning, I understand?"

Politeness forbade him to turn abruptly to his interlocutor and ask how she came by this piece of news; he therefore only assented briefly.

"I may as well warn you, Mr. Cheveril, in confidence, of course, that we all deplore the Collector's infatuation for Mahomedans. The favours he grants them are spelling mischief down there in the town, as Dr. Campbell will tell you, though my husband may be too loyal to his brother-civilian to speak his mind," she added, turning half round and rolling her protruding eyes upon the pair behind who were gaily chatting, their thoughts far away from the squabbles of station life.

Mark's first impulse was to assure his companion that in the present instance, at all events, Zynool Sahib had shown no desire to interview his chief, but on the contrary had planned his visit in his absence so that he might take stock of the new Assistant; but he felt disinclined to make a confidante to the smallest extent of the lady by his side, who continued excitedly:

"You will have the whole story soon enough, so I may as well unfold it at once, Mr. Cheveril. That Mahomedan butler of his has great influence with the Collector. My husband tries to excuse Mr. Worsley by saying he is not in the least aware that the man goes out of his own province, or he would not tolerate it for a moment. But do we not know there are none so blind as those who won't see? Well, this Moideen is a poor relation of Zynool, who is one of the richest men in the town, and it is he who set him to work on his master for permission to build a mosque on an ancient site."

"But that was surely a legitimate enough request," interjected Mark.

"Ah, but listen! The whole thing was a wicked plot on the part of the Mussulmans to annoy their neighbours. The site was near the river and the burning-ghaut of the Hindus; and so, of course, they have been up in arms more or less ever since. Now wasn't that a most unprincipled proceeding, Mr. Cheveril?"

"On whose part?" asked Mark coldly.

The chilliness of his tone was not lost on Mrs. Goldring, who tossed her head, saying:

"On whoever the cap fits! For my part I've never had any doubt who is the real culprit, but my position forbids me to say."

The usual tennis-party was to be held that evening in Mrs. Goldring's compound. The hostess never doubted that the new Assistant would put in an appearance after the favour she had been extending to him. She was not a little mortified, therefore, when he politely declined, pleading as his excuse, when she pressed him, that he must see how the Collector was now, and, if well enough, keep him company.

"Believe me, you are wasting your fragrance on the desert air, Mr. Cheveril. The Collector vastly prefers his cheroot and Moideen's company to yours or mine," said Mrs. Goldring with a malicious air. But Mark lifted his hat and disappeared down Mr. Worsley's avenue.

The late conversation had by no means a reassuring effect on the young man. He glanced with new interest on Moideen. Beneath his obsequious demeanour, he thought he could detect an uneasy smile as he met him and ushered him into his master's writing-room. The Collector welcomed him with a cordial smile, making light of his morning's ailment.

"It was only a touch of liver, though Moideen tried to make me believe I was in the grip of fever." Then he turned to talk of office matters, and was anxious to hear Mark's impressions of his first day at his new work.

After briefly recording the business which the clerks had put into his hands, he led up to the visit of Zynool.

"So the rascal turned up at last!" said the Collector. "I've been summoning him for weeks, and he has evaded me. Now he comes the only day I've been away since I was on tour."

Mark was about to remark that it was clear now that it was owing to his absence the Mahomedan had presented himself that morning.

"Then you don't like the man?" he asked, with an air of relief, remembering Mrs. Goldring's assertion that Zynool and the Collector were hand-in-glove. "My impression was certainly most unfavourable," he said, the blood mounting to his face, "as you will believe when I tell you that without any ostensible cause he actually approached me with a bribe—drew from the inner folds of his muslin a bag of gold, and said he wished to lay a gift in my palm. He looked daggers when I told him to pick up his money and go. Rather a humiliating experience for my first day in office, wasn't it? I hope I don't look a likely subject," wound up Mark, with rather a sore smile.

"You don't," answered the Collector, with frank emphasis on the pronoun. "But that confirms my suspicions that such methods were tried and succeeded not so very long since, and it throws fresh light on some things. The blackguard! So he put forth that early feeler to see what stuff you were made of! Good; he found his match this time!"

Mark, happening to glance at one of the screen doors at the moment, perceived a pair of handsome brown feet with a massive ring on the great toe planted on the rattan matting. He at once recognised them as Moideen's and strode across to the door, but when he reached it, only Sheila, one of the Collector's setters, stepped in with an apologetic air.

The Collector, lying back in his chair absorbed in thought and taking satisfying puffs of his cheroot, had not noticed the incident. Should he call his attention to it, Mark pondered, but decided to ignore it. Possibly the man was only passing the door, though certainly those brown feet had had a stationary appearance.

Presently the Collector proceeded to unfold, in the frankest manner, the circumstances which Mrs. Goldring had been eager to weave into a sinister web. He narrated simply how he had been led to sanction the building of the mosque in a neighbourhood which now suggested trouble all round.

"The fact is, having more confidence in Printer than was possible later, I left the negotiations to him, thinking it was a simple matter. It was foolish and wrong, I see now, but these town squabbles have always been particularly odious to me. As to Zynool, I only knew him by hearsay as a relative of my boy Moideen, who was very eager about the mosque. I believed it was solely on account of his zeal for the Faith, and was quite touched by his religious emotion. He saved up his pay, made no end of sacrifices to help to buy the site; but since then I've had reason to suspect that he was used as a tool by that fellow Zynool, who I know now to be a treacherous dog. He is backed up in his infamy by a shady pleader in Madras, who secretly bought the site from an unsuspecting Hindu for an old song. Then he and Zynool together sold it to the Mahomedan community for twice the sum, getting the money out of them on religious pretexts. I want to have it out with Zynool, and have summoned him more than once, but I think he must be keeping out of my way. Perhaps he guessed I was not at office to-day and went to take the measure of the new Assistant," said Mr. Worsley, with an air of discovery.

Mark, remembering the brown feet planted behind the screen door, was about to say: "He got a message from Moideen that you were not to be there. Possibly you were detained at home so that Zynool might have an opportunity of sounding my depths"; but he forebore, contenting himself by listening to this frank statement of affairs, open as the daylight, and which he contrasted with Mrs. Goldring's jaundiced narrative. The main point with him was to know that his chief was fully aware of Zynool's villainy. It was not to be wondered at that such methods could not readily be fathomed by the English gentleman, without fear and without reproach.

As he sat by his side now in the gathering dusk, a recurrence of a slumbering anxiety awakened in his mind. What was that remark as to Zynool's being a client of "a shady pleader in Madras"? Alfred Rayner had certainly mentioned his name as being a client, so it must be he! It was bitter indeed that anyone should be able so to designate Hester's husband, and yet had there not been suggestions of baseness in Rayner's conduct on more than one occasion during his own brief sojourn in Clive's Road? Could he forget the epithets he had used about the good Morpeth? Was it possible that Hester Bellairs was mated to a man quite unworthy of her? How futile was anything he could do to shield her from the thorns and briars which must encompass her path even if their roads did not lie apart? But he would be true to his promise given on the lawn of the Pinkthorpe Rectory! He would take the earliest opportunity of a visit to Clive's Road. Possibly Rayner might only be the dupe of the wily Zynool, and, on being told his true character and methods, might shake himself free of the plotter.

With hopeful thoughts Mark turned to interest himself in the project of a tour through the District which the Collector was planning for the following week.