A servant
noiselessly arranged decanters and cigars upon the sideboard, and,
in response to an impatient movement of Trent's, withdrew. Francis
lit a cigarette. Trent, contrary to his custom, did not smoke. He
walked to the door and softly locked it. Then he returned and stood
looking down at his companion.
"Francis," he said, "you have been my enemy since the day I saw you
first in Bekwando village."
Scarcely that," Francis objected. "I have distrusted you since then
if you like."
"Call it what you like," Trent answered. "Only to-night you have
served me a scurvy trick. You were a guest at my table and you gave
me not the slightest warning. On the contrary, this morning you
offered me a week's respite."
"The story I told," Francis answered, "could have had no significance
to them."
"I don't know whether you are trying to deceive me or not," Trent
said, "only if you do not know, let me tell you - Miss Wendermott
is that old man's daughter!"
The man's start was real. There was no doubt about that. "And
she knew?"
"She knew that he had been in Africa, but she believed that he had
died there. What she believes at this moment I cannot tell. Your
story evidently moved her. She will probably try to find out from
you the truth.
Pages:
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309