"Cheer up!" said Portal blithely. "You'll soon be dead!"
It was a well-worn expression, and Carson was accustomed to it, but upon this occasion it jarred. Something in Portal's voice was jarring, too. Now that Carson came to remark it, for the first time that evening there was something wrong with Portal's appearance as well as his voice. Instead of being in evening-dress, he had on a brown tweed morning-suit, in which, to judge by its appearance, he might have been knocking about the veldt for several weeks. On the other hand, his face was as bloodless and sallow as if he had been shut in a cellar for a month, and his eyes were sunk deep in his head. Withal, he was cheerful, full of suppressed excitement—almost it might be said that he was gay. After many years in Africa, Carson was accustomed to all kinds of moods and tenses in his friends; also, being an intimate of Portal's, he was aware that the latter possessed a troublesome liver. But somehow, none of these things could quite account for the extraordinary aspect and manner of Portal to-night. Under the powerful rays of a street light which fizzled and hummed close by, Carson observed him intently.
"What's the matter with you, Bill? You look queer. Anything wrong? ... besides Capron, I mean...?"
The other responded with apparent composure.
"No, nothing. I'm only glad to see you, Carson, that's all. I'd no idea you were back from the Rand. I had arranged to go up there after you, but——"
"When? What for?" asked Carson in surprise. He was unable to make head or tail of Portal's speech.
"Oh, nothing; just wanted to see you. You're a fascinating chap."
Carson gazed at him.
One of Portal's hands spasmodically gripped and ungripped the verandah rail. With the other he appeared to be holding something stiff in the right pocket of his coat. He continued to talk in parables.
"I went as far as Maritzburg, but I came back to-night to put my affairs into shape and write a few letters—then those fellows came in and asked me to take charge of Capron ... I left him asleep, I thought ... I was writing a letter to—well, never mind who to—when I heard a row ... and there was Capron ... he'd got ahead of me."