Mellishe came up to Simla ‘to confer with the Viceroy.’  That was one of his perquisites.  The Viceroy knew nothing of Mellishe except that he was ’one of those middle-class deities who seem necessary to the spiritual comfort of this Paradise of the Middle-classes,’ and that, in all probability he had ’suggested, designed, founded, and endowed all the public institutions in Madras.’  Which proves that His Excellency, though dreamy, had experience of the ways of six-thousand-rupee men.

Mellishe’s name was E. Mellishe, and Mellish’s was E.S.  Mellish, and they were both staying at the same hotel, and the Fate that looks after the Indian Empire ordained that Wonder should blunder and drop the final ‘e’; that the Chaprassi should help him, and that the note which ran—­

  DEAR MR. MELLISH,—­Can you set aside your other engagements, and
  lunch with us at two to-morrow?  His Excellency has an hour at your
  disposal then,

should be given to Mellish with the Fumigatory.  He nearly wept with pride and delight, and at the appointed hour cantered to Peterhoff, a big paper-bag full of the Fumigatory in his coat-tail pockets.  He had his chance, and he meant to make the most of it.  Mellishe of Madras had been so portentously solemn about his ‘conference,’ that Wonder had arranged for a private tiffin,—­no A.-D.-C.’s, no Wonder, no one but the Viceroy, who said plaintively that he feared being left alone with unmuzzled autocrats like the great Mellishe of Madras.

But his guest did not bore the Viceroy.  On the contrary, he amused him.  Mellish was nervously anxious to go straight to his Fumigatory, and talked at random until tiffin was over and His Excellency asked him to smoke.  The Viceroy was pleased with Mellish because he did not talk ‘shop.’

As soon as the cheroots were lit, Mellish spoke like a man; beginning with his cholera-theory, reviewing his fifteen years’ ’scientific labours,’ the machinations of the ‘Simla Ring,’ and the excellence of his Fumigatory, while the Viceroy watched him between half-shut eyes and thought—­’Evidently this is the wrong tiger; but it is an original animal.’  Mellish’s hair was standing on end with excitement, and he stammered.  He began groping in his coat-tails and, before the Viceroy knew what was about to happen, he had tipped a bagful of his powder into the big silver ash-tray.

‘J-j-judge for yourself, Sir,’ said Mellish.  ‘Y’ Excellency shall judge for yourself!  Absolutely infallible, on my honour.’

He plunged the lighted end of his cigar into the powder, which began to smoke like a volcano, and send up fat, greasy wreaths of copper-coloured smoke.  In five seconds the room was filled with a most pungent and sickening stench—­a reek that took fierce hold of the trap of your wind-pipe and shut it.  The powder hissed and fizzed, and sent out blue and green sparks, and the smoke rose till you could neither see, nor breathe, nor gasp.  Mellish, however, was used to it.