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Updated: June 21, 2025
"I would first point out the advantages; a fourth share in the Simiacine scheme would make you a rich man above suspicion independent of the gossip of the market-place." Maurice Gordon winced visibly, and his eyes wavered as if he were about to give way to panic. "You could retire and go home to England to a cooler climate. This country might get too hot for your constitution see?"
The roll of the big war-drum could be heard almost incessantly, rising with weird melancholy from the forest land beneath them. Despite difficulties the new crop of Simiacine the second within twelve months had been picked, dried, and stored in cases. Without, on the Plateau, stood the bare trees, affording no covert for savage warfare no screen against the deadly bullet.
I thought it was in order that they might share in the Simiacine I told them they could have the whole confounded lot of the stuff. But it was not that; they tricked Durnovo there. They wanted to get him to themselves. In going down the river we had an accident with two of the boats, which necessitated staying at Msala.
His face was burnt so brown that eyebrows and moustache stood out almost blonde, though in reality they were only brown. His eyes did not seem to be suffering from the heaviness noticeable in others; altogether, the climate and the mystic breath of the Simiacine grove did not appear to affect him as it did his companions.
It seems hardly credible that the Plateau, no bigger than a cricket field, far away in the waste land of Central Africa, can be the only spot on this planet where the magic leaf grows in sufficient profusion to supply suffering humanity with an alleviating drug, unrivalled a strength-giving herb, unapproached in power. But as yet no other Simiacine has been found and the Plateau is lost.
"Simiacine," repeated Gordon, fingering the stem of his wine-glass and looking at him keenly between the candle-shades. "Yes. You've always been on its track, haven't you?" "In six months your go-downs will be full of it my Simiacine, my Simiacine." "By God, I wish I had a hand in it." Maurice Gordon pushed the decanter again gently, almost surreptitiously. "And so you may, some day.
Faute de mieux, they do not hesitate to interest one in the special pill to which they resort when indisposed, and they are not above advertising a soap. You are not going to write a book, I trust?" "No. It would hardly serve our purpose to write a book." "In what way?" inquired Sir John. "Our purpose is to conceal the whereabouts of the Simiacine Plateau."
"I hope it isn't," he answered, and without another word he strode away down the little pathway from the summit into the clouds, loading his rifle as he went. Durnovo and his men, working among the Simiacine bushes, heard from time to time a signal shot as the two Englishmen groped their way towards each other through the everlasting night of the African forest.
The natural ambition would be to find something more flowery and yet equally descriptive." Guy Oscard subsided into a monosyllabic sound. "I believe implicitly in this scheme," he went on, after a pause. "It is a certain fact that the men who can supply pure Simiacine have only to name their price for it.
By the way," he shouted after him, "give my kind regards to the Gordons at Loango." And so the first consignment of Simiacine was sent from the Plateau to the coast. Guy Oscard was one of those deceptive men who only do a few things, and do those few very well.
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