But as he went out, a dark figure, which had been crouching outside against the door throughout the whole of this interview, rose and glided rapidly round the corner, unperceived by Roden Musgrave.
Outside, in the black and rainy street, the Kaffir made his way swiftly towards his master’s dwelling, which was odd at that time of night, because he slept at the town location half a mile in the contrary direction, and as he went, closely followed by the stealthy figure, he kept repeating in his own language the words: “When I find I still have the money in the morning... Only too glad. Yau!”
With this ejaculation he stopped short. In the dark and rainy silence the full force of the idea flashed upon him in all its brightness. The result was that he turned, and bent his steps in the direction of his habitual sleeping quarters.
Hardly had he gone ten yards before he was met by the figure which had been following him. Seen in the gloom it was that of a man, a Kaffir, of about the same height and build as Tom himself. The latter, however, showed no surprise or alarm at this sudden meeting, for the two walked together side by side, the low rumble of their bass voices mingling in converse, together with frequent bursts of half-suppressed but clearly inextinguishable laughter.
Now in the office or den devoted to the shadiest of his transactions—and he was wont to deal in some very shady transactions—sat Adolphus Sonnenberg, with an expectant, but very evilly exultant expression of countenance, and this increased as the minutes went by. With him also sat Lambert.
Between them was a bottle of grog, glasses, and a biscuit tin, eke a box of cigars. The expression of Lambert’s face was akin to that on the more abominable countenance of the Jew. Both were waiting, for something, for somebody; the most casual spectator might have seen that at a glance.
“Do you think he’ll tumble?” the doctor was saying—not for the first time. “Do you think he’ll fall into the hole?”
“Tumble? Fall into de hole? I should rather think he would,” was the emphatic reply. “These beggarly Civil Servants are all so damn hard up, they’d sell their souls for fifteen pounds. And I know Musgrave would.”
“Steady, steady! No names,” warned the other, glancing furtively around.