His clear course
was to lay it before Thwaite and shift the responsibility for action to
his shoulders. But he felt all the while that this letter had a
personal application which he could not conceal. It would have been as
easy for Marker to send the note to Thwaite, whom he had long known.
But he had chosen to warn him privately. It might be a ruse, but he had
no glimpse of the meaning. Or, again, it might be a piece of pure
friendliness, a chance of unofficial adventure given by one wanderer to
another. He puzzled it out, lamenting that he was so deep in the dark,
and cursing his indecision. Another man would have made up his mind
long ago; it was a ruse, therefore let it be neglected and remain in
Bardur with open eyes; it was good faith and a good chance, therefore
let him go at once. But to Lewis the possibilities seemed endless, and
he could find no solution save the old one of the waverer, to wait for
further light.
He found Thwaite at breakfast, just returned from his travels.
"Hullo, Haystoun. I heard you were here. Awfully glad to see you. Sit
down, won't you, and have some breakfast." The officer was a long man,
with a thin, long face, a reddish moustache, and small, blue eyes.
"I came to ask you questions, if you don't mind. I have the regular
globe-trotter's trick of wanting information. What's the Forza camp
like? Do you think that the Bada-Mawidi, supposing they stir again,
would be likely to attack it?"
"Not a bit of it.
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