“Did he see them killed?”
Again Warren nodded.
“Then how did he escape himself?”
There was an uncomfortable directness about this cross-examination which Warren didn’t like and hadn’t bargained for. He was a believer in woman’s instinct, and to that extent began to feel uneasy. What if Rawson had been lying to him after all? But he answered:
“Just then the Usutus were attacked by the rival faction and in the confusion Bexley escaped. You see, he is an experienced Zulu trader, and knew a lot of them. Some of them would be sure to favour him. I received the news much earlier, but in order not to prematurely alarm you, I sent for the man himself so as to hear the story direct.”
What was this? No word of thanks, of appreciation such as he had expected, passed Lalanté’s lips. Her eyes were fixed on his with a hard, unflinching and, as he thought, distrustful gaze. As a matter of fact it was just that. A sudden instinct, an indefinable flair, had inspired in her mind an element of suspicion. Even the cleverest of actors may at times forget to keep up his part and this is precisely what Warren had done. Some of the intense jubilation which rang in his mind had overflowed into his tone, making his sympathy ring hollow, and even false. There and then Lalanté formed the conclusion that he was not Wyvern’s friend. But she said nothing. What did it matter? What did the whole world matter now?
Over the dusking plains the red afterglow shed its changing rays of beauty. There were the same familiar sights and sounds of the closing day, and the voices of life. Together they two had listened to it, had remarked on it often—the sweetness of the golden air, the rushing forth of innumerable stars as the heavenly vault darkened. Side by side they had watched it all, and now—side by side they would watch it no more. Without a word she rose, and, passing to her room shut herself in, to undergo the first night of agony alone. The first night! and, after that the first awakening—in the morning!