"What name?"
"Trent! Mr. Scarlett Trent!"
The door of an inner office opened, and Da Souza, sleek and curled,
presented himself. He showed all his white teeth in the smile
with which he welcomed his visitor. The light of battle was in his
small, keen eyes, in his cringing bow, his mock humility.
"I am most honoured, Mr. Trent, sir," he declared. "Welcome back
to England. When did you return?"
"Yesterday," Trent said shortly.
"And you have come," Da Souza continued, "fresh from the triumphs
of the race-course. It is so, I trust?"
"I have come straight from Ascot," Trent replied, "but my horse was
beaten if that is what you mean. I did not come here to talk about
racing though. I want a word with you in private."
"With much pleasure, sir," Da Souza answered, throwing open with a
little flourish the door of his sanctum. "Will you step in? This
way! The chair is dusty. Permit me!"
Trent threw a swift glance around the room in which he found himself.
It was barely furnished, and a window, thick with dust, looked out
on the dingy back-wall of a bank or some public building. The floor
was uncovered, the walls were hung with yellow maps of gold-mines all
in the West African district. Da Souza himself, spick and span, with
glossy boots and a flower in his buttonhole, was certainly the least
shabby thing in the room.
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