Trent nodded.
"In five minutes," he said, "I will return here - on the other side
of the band-stand, say."
Francis nodded and stood aside. Trent and Ernestine continued their
progress towards the stand.
"Your friend," Ernestine remarked, " seemed to come upon you like
a modern Banquo!"
Trent, who did not understand the allusion, was for once discreet.
"He is a man with whom I had dealings abroad," he said, "I did not
expect him to turn up here."
"In West Africa?" she asked quickly.
Trent smiled enigmatically.
"There are many foreign countries besides Africa," he said, "and
I've been in most of them. This is box No. 13, then. I shall see
you this evening."
She nodded, and Trent was free again. He did not make his way at
once to the band-stand. Instead he entered the small
refreshment-room at the base of the building and called for a glass
of brandy. He drank it slowly, his eyes fixed upon the long row of
bottles ranged upon the shelf opposite to him, he himself carried
back upon a long wave of thoughts to a little West African station
where the moist heat rose in fever mists and where an endless stream
of men passed backward and forward to their tasks with wan, weary
faces and slowly dragging limbs. What a cursed chance which had
brought him once more face to face with the one weak spot in his life,
the one chapter which, had he the power, he would most willingly seal
for ever! From outside came the ringing of a bell, the hoarse
shouting of many voices in the ring, through the open door a vision
of fluttering waves of colour, lace parasols and picture hats, little
trills of feminine laughter, the soft rustling of muslins and silks.
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