As he entered they looked up, exchanging
quick, startled glances. Then Cathcart gave vent to a little
exclamation.
"Great Heavens, Trent, what have you been doing?" Trent sank into
a chair. "Get me some wine," he said. "I am all right but
over-tired."
Cathcart poured champagne into a tumbler. Trent emptied it at a
gulp and asked for biscuits. The man's recuperative powers were
wonderful. Already the deathly whiteness was passing from his cheeks.
"Where is Da Souza?" he asked.
"Gone back to England," Cathcart answered, looking out of the open
casement shaded from the sun by the sloping roof. "His steamer
started yesterday."
Trent was puzzled. He scarcely understood this move.
"Did he give any reason?"
Cathcart smoked for a moment in silence. After all though a
disclosure would be unpleasant, it was inevitable and as well now
as any time. "I think," Cathcart said, "that he has gone to try
and sell his shares in the Bekwando concessions."
"Gone - to - sell - his - shares!" Trent repeated slowly. "You
mean to say that he has gone straight from here to put a hundred
thousand Bekwando shares upon the market?"
Cathcart nodded.
He said so!
"And why? Did he tell you that?"
"He has come to the conclusion," Cathcart said, "that the scheme
is impracticable altogether and the concessions worthless.
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