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I take you back ten years to when I met him at Attra and we became partners in a certain enterprise. Your father at that time was a harmless wreck of a man who was fast killing himself with brandy. He had some money, I had none. With it we bought the necessary outfit and presents for my enterprise and started for Bekwando.
As he rode into Attra he reeled a little in his saddle, and he walked into the office of the Agent more like a ghost than a man. Two men, Cathcart and his assistant, who was only a boy, were lounging in low chairs. 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?"
Certainly, at the time, he never stopped to consider that he was helping back to life the man who in all the world was most likely to do him ill. "Better?" he asked presently. "Much. What luck to find you. What are you after gold?" Trent shook his head. "Not at present. We're planning out the new road from Attra to Bekwando." Francis looked up with surprise.
"Rather a stupid play, isn't it? By the by, Trent, I wish you would ask Miss Wendermott's permission to present me. I met her young cousin out at Attra." Ernestine heard and leaned forward smiling. Trent did as he was asked, with set teeth and an ill grace. From then, until the curtain went up for the next act, he had only to sit still and listen.
A fortnight afterwards Trent rode into Attra, pale, gaunt, and hollow-eyed. The whole history of those days would never be known by another man! Upon Trent they had left their mark for ever. Every hour of his time in this country he reckoned of great value yet he had devoted fourteen days to saving the life of John Francis. Such days too and such nights!
Yet the man was of the same race as these people, his connections were known to many of them, he was making new friends and reviving old ties every moment. During a brief lull in the conversation his clear, soft voice suddenly reached Trent's ears. He was telling a story. "Africa," he was saying, "is a country of surprises. Attra seems to be a city of hopeless exile for all white people.
"Supposing that this were true," he said, "what is he doing all this time? Why does he not come and claim his share?" Da Souza hesitated. He would have liked to have invented another reason, but it was not safe. The truth was best. "He is half-witted and has lost his memory. He is working now at one of the Basle mission-places near Attra." "And why have you not told me this before?"
But you must tell me what you have done with Vill Monty." "Don't you know where he is?" Trent asked quickly. "I? Certainly not! How should I?" "Perhaps not," Trent said, "but here's the truth. When I got back to Attra Monty had disappeared ran away to England, and as yet I've heard never a word of him. I'd meant to do the square thing by him and bring him back myself.
The boy nursed him and the German doctor came up from Attra and, when he learnt who his patient was, took up his quarters in the place. But for all his care and the boy's nursing things went badly with Scarlett Trent. To him ended for a while all measure of days time became one long night, full of strange, tormenting flashes of thought, passing like red fire before his burning eyes.
"There are men in Attra who want him dead, and they have been doing their best to hurry him off. I caught a Kru boy bringing him gin this afternoon. Evidently it has been a regular thing." "I am very sorry indeed to hear this," the woman said, "and I am sure my husband will be too. He will feel that, in a certain measure, he has betrayed Captain Francis's trust.
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