As a fact, he had never been in love. Art, particularly as expressed by brass instruments, was his mistress.
He turned to descend the steps from the bandstand, when he perceived a tall African standing at attention at the bottom of the steps.
“What do you want?” he asked the African.
The man smiled the placid and infantile smile of his race, and handed a note to Carpentaria.
“You from the Soudanese village?”
“Yes, sah.”
The inhabitant of the Soudanese village, which was one of the attractions of the hippodrome, stood about six feet four inches high, and he was in native costume, which consisted largely, but not exclusively, of beads and polish. To gaze, dazzled, at the polish on that man’s face, shoulders, chest, and calves, one would guess that the whole tribe must sit up at nights bringing his polish to such a unique pitch of perfection. In his cheek you could see yourself as in a mirror, and he had the air of being personally well satisfied with the splendour of his mahogany skin.
Carpentaria opened the note. It read:
“Please come to me at once.—Ilam.”
Should he go? Or should he refuse this strange invitation, and hasten at once to Mr. Jetsam and the doctor?