“The Indies, sir?”

“You are interested?  In me also, when I was your age, the name stirred my blood and haunted my imagination.  Yes, ’tis nigh ten years since I first sailed from these shores for the marvelous east.  Multum et terris jactatus et alto.  Twice have I made my fortune—­got me enough of the wealth of Ormus and of Ind to buy up half your county.  Twice, alas! has an unkind Fate robbed me of my all!  But, as I said, ’tis my own fault.  Nemo contentus, sir—­you know the passage?  I was not satisfied:  I must have a little more; and yet a little more.  I put my wealth forth in hazardous enterprises—­presto! it is swept away.  But I was born, sir, after all, under a merry star.  Nothing discourages me.  After a brief sojourn for recuperation in this salubrious spot, I shall return; and this time, mark you, I shall run no risks.  Five years to make my fortune; then I shall come home, content with a round ten lakhs.”

“What is a lakh?”

“Ah, I forgot, you are not acquainted with these phrases of the Orient.  A lakh, my friend, is a hundred thousand rupees, say twelve thousand pounds.  And I warrant you I will not squander it as a certain gentleman we know squandered his.”

“You mean General Clive?”

“Colonel Clive, my friend.  Yes, I say Colonel Clive has squandered his fortune.  Why, he came home with thirty lakhs at the least:  and what does he do?  He must ruffle it in purple and fine linen, and feed the fat in royal entertainments; then, forsooth, he stands for a seat in Parliament, pours out his gold like water—­to what end?  A petition is presented against his return:  the House holds an inquiry; and the end of the sorry farce is, that Mr. Robert Clive’s services are dispensed with.  When I think of the good money he has wasted—­But then, sir, I am no politician.  Colonel Clive and I are two ruined men; ’tis a somewhat strange coincidence that he and I are almost of an age, and that we both, before many weeks are past, shall be crossing the ocean once more to retrieve our fallen fortunes.”

Walking side by side during this conversation they had now come into the road leading past Desmond’s home.  In the distance, approaching them, appeared a post chaise, drawn by four galloping horses.  The sight broke the thread of the conversation.

“’Tis the squire at last!” cried Desmond.  “Sure he must have put up at Newcastle overnight.”

But that he was intently watching the rapid progress of the chaise, he might have noticed a curious change of expression on his companion’s face.  The smile faded, the lips became set with a kind of grim determination.  But Diggle’s pleasant tone had not altered when he said: 

“Our ways part here, my friend—­for the present.  I doubt not we shall meet again; and if you care to hear of my adventures by field and flood—­why, ‘I will a round unvarnished tale deliver,’ as the Moor of Venice says in the play.  For the present, then, farewell!”