"You sent for me, Trent," the latter remarked timidly. "I am quite
ready to answer any more questions."
"Answer this one, then," was the gruff reply. "In Buckomari village
before we left for England I was robbed of a letter. I don't think
I need ask you who was the thief."
"Really, Trent - I - "
"Don't irritate me; I'm in an ill humour for anything of that sort.
You stole it! I can see why now! Have you got it still?"
The Jew shrugged his shoulders.
"Yes."
"Hand it over."
Da Souza drew a large folding case from his pocket and after
searching through it for several moments produced an envelope. The
handwriting was shaky and irregular, and so faint that even in the
strong, sweet light of the morning sunshine Trent had difficulty in
reading it. He tore it open and drew out a half-sheet of coarse
paper. It was a message from the man who for long he had counted
dead.
"BEKWANDO.
"MY DEAR TRENT,-I have been drinking as usual! Some men see snakes,
but I have seen death leering at me from the dark corners of this
vile hut, and death is an evil thing to look at when one's life has
been evil as mine has been. Never mind! I have sown and I must
reap! But, my friend, a last word with you.
Pages:
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127