It
is my story and it is a true one. Will you believe it or will you
take his word against mine?"
She would have spoken, but Francis held up his hand.
"My story," he said coolly, "has been told behind your back. It is
only fair to repeat it to your face. I have told Miss Wendermott
this - that I met you first in the village of Bekwando with a
concession in your hand made out to you and her father jointly,
with the curious proviso that in the event of the death of one
the other was his heir. I pointed out to Miss Wendermott that you
were in the prime of life and in magnificent condition, while her
father was already on the threshold of the grave and drinking
himself into a fever in a squalid hut in a village of swamps. I
told her that I suspected foul play, that I followed you both and
found her father left to the tender mercies of the savages,
deserted by you in the bush. I told her that many months afterwards
he disappeared, simultaneously with your arrival in the country,
that a day or two ago you swore to me you had no idea where he was.
That has been my story, Trent, let Miss Wendermott choose between
them."
"I am content," Trent cried fiercely. "Your story is true enough,
but it is cunningly linked together. You have done your worst.
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