“What help can you give me, and why should you wish to?” he said dubiously, his ingrained suspicion forbidding him to trust the other overmuch.
“It can bring about the very thing that would have happened had I been the real Colvin. For my motive—well, that is my business. I may or may not tell it you later, but somehow I think not.”
“Do you hate him, then?” said the Dutchman, still suspiciously.
“Not in the least. I am perfectly indifferent to him. But he stands in my way, and must get out of it. That is all.”
“He must get out of my way, too,” said the other, with a dark scowl.
“Quite so. And if I help you to get him out of your way, you will help me to get him out of mine?”
“Can I trust you?”
“Well, you’ve got to,” answered Kenneth cheerfully, for he saw that the other was nibbling around the bait. “Don’t be afraid, though. You won’t regret it; and now, excuse me, but I’ll be hanged if I know exactly who you are.”
“My name is Adrian De la Rey,” replied the other. “And yours?”
“Kenneth Kershaw. And now we know each other, there’s no need to stand talking out here where we may be overheard, so come along to my diggings, and we’ll find something to drink, and have the show to ourselves for weaving a plan of campaign. Say though, it was a fortunate thing you happened up when you did. Those niggers were one too many for me.”