“Nkosazana!”
The latter in salutation of Edala, who appeared at the door.
“Father, when you’ve quite done trying to make Gomfu a worse heathen than he is already, and, incidentally, than you are yourself, it might occur to you to bring in the post-bag,” she said.
“Gomfu’s quaint theology has the merit of being logical, eke simple,” he answered coming back into the room. “Here’s the bag. Where’s the key? Now then,” he went on, having unlocked the bag and turned out its contents. “Graphic. Country Life. Natal Witness. Eastern Province Herald—that’s enough journalism. Letters? None for you. M-m. One, two, three—all business Four—no. Number 4 isn’t biz, but—yes it is—it’s English. They make our stamps and the English ones so much alike now that there’s no telling the difference. Now I wonder who that can be from,” scrutinising the direction narrowly. “There’s no one in England likely to write to me.”
“Father. Look again. You must be getting blind. Why it is one of our stamps after all, and the postmark is Durban—or what’s left of it.”
“Has Durban, then, met with nearly total destruction?” he inquired, tranquilly.
“Now, don’t be absurd. You know I meant the postmark.”
“Oh, the postmark? Small wonder I was in doubt, for the sole use of the average postmark is to throw a hopeless blind on both the locality and the date of posting.”
“Well the best way of solving the mystery, and the shortest, would be to open the letter and look at the signature.”
“Ah! Ah! A woman’s way of reading a novel—looking at the end first.”