Twice that night the life of the chief of the Amahluzi had hung on a hair. It was saved—for the present.
Chapter Eleven.
“Good Night, Zavula!”
Elvesdon was seated in his inner office, busied with his ordinary routine work. It was afternoon and hot, and he had thrown off his coat and waistcoat, and sat in his shirt and light duck trousers smoking a pipe of excellent Magaliesberg. Court was over, he had disposed of the few cases, mostly of a trumpery nature, before lunch, and now the office work was not of a particularly engrossing character; wherefore perhaps it was not strange that his thoughts should go back to his Sunday visit, which, of course, spelt Edala Thornhill.
The worst of it was she had been occupying his thoughts of late, and that even when he had seen her but once. Now he had seen her twice—had spent a whole day in her society. And she was occupying his thoughts more than ever. Yet—why?
He was not in his first youth, nor was she the first of the other sex he had been interested in. He had had experiences, as a fine, well-looking, well set up man of his stamp was bound to have had. Yet the image of this girl had stamped itself upon his mind in a way that the image of no one else had ever been able to do for years; since what he pleasantly liked to term to himself—his salad days. And he did not know what to make of this interest. It was not even budding love—he told himself—only a strong interest in what seemed an interesting character. Yet behind it was an unmistakable longing to see more of her. The feeling rendered him vaguely uncomfortable.
He relit his pipe, and sat back to think. There came a tap at the door and his clerk entered, bringing some official letters to be signed.
“Anything new. Prior?” he asked carelessly, when this process had been accomplished.