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miles there would be a small, tumble-down, thatched Hindoo temple or an old tomb with a small tank for water next to it and sometimes a holy man or sadoo in attendance. At regular intervals we came upon old stone monuments, thirty feet high, like fat stone fingers pointing heavenward. Mir Aziz told me that they were kos minars, giant milestones placed there by the Moghul emperors who had also planted the trees to provide shade and shelter for travellers. Now and again there would be a line of stalls selling food and tobacco to travellers camping nearby, and a dak post where groups of bearers sat waiting to carry messages or post up the road. A little way from the road one could see small villages of bamboo and mud, huts green with moss and mould after the rains. The tentative thought came to me that all might not be lost; being in the Mofussil might not be so unbearable and we might after all find Mountstuart.
    Mr Blake’s oddities might form part of my entertainment, but he was at the same time the great shadow over my reviving spirits. I had intended to apologize to him for my conduct on the first day, but the way in which he ignored me, and the deliberateness of his use of Hindoostanee to isolate me, soon suffocated that resolve. His whole manner, moreover, seemed designed to repel interlocutors. He never rushed but he was always engaged in some activity, and even when he was eating or sitting by the fire at night, he seemed entirely preoccupied. On that fourth day, I forced myself to approach him, but I had to interpose myself between him and his horse in order to gain his attention.
    ‘Mr Blake, I know you did not wish me to accompany you on this journey. But at the very least you might do me the courtesy of letting me know your plans.’
    He had his saddle upon his shoulder, carrying it from one pony tothe next. He paused, scratched the top of his ear, and said, ‘Lieutenant Avery, your job is to keep up, not to hinder me, and to keep your bone-box shut. If you do that I shall be perfectly satisfied. And you never know, you may even learn something.’
    I muttered something unrepeatable under my breath.
    ‘You feel you’ve been ill-used? You were lucky to leave Calcutta when you did.’
    ‘And how do you figure that, sir?’
    ‘You’re no city type, and where you were you had few prospects. The cholera epidemic will only get worse. You’re badly in debt and your servants were stealing from you.’
    ‘You know nothing, sir. My servants were perfectly honest and my finances quite secure, thank you!’ This was not at all how I had expected the exchange to go.
    ‘All griffins are in debt,’ he said, which was true. ‘But the last five buttons on your jacket are patkong, a cheap alloy, not silver. Your laundryman or tailor replaced them. There’s a market for silver buttons in Calcutta.’
    Looking closely at my buttons I saw that the last five were almost but not precisely identical to the others. I could not believe I had not seen this before. I walked back to my fresh pony, humiliated, my heart overflowing with the purest dislike of him.
He is an oaf, a coarse oaf! And I hate him
, I thought. When I looked up, Mir Aziz was watching me.
    ‘If you are being kind enough to permit me, Chote Sahib,’ he said, ‘I may tell you that we are indeed on course in our travels, and I would be most pleased to show you the maps of our route.’ It was half in my mind to rebuff him, but there was something in his manner that forestalled me. The words were not offered in pity or two-faced flattery, but rather with a grave courtesy. I checked myself.
    ‘I would be most grateful if you would,’ I replied.
    Thus, by design or by accident, Mir Aziz became my guide. He imparted information to me and helped me accustom myself to the road. It was a state of affairs that would have caused disapproval in Calcutta, but I was grateful for it. Within a few hours he had pointedout a dozen small things to make the journey less