“I will sit down,” he said, “I am not well! The sea disagrees with me horribly. Well, well, you want to know why I came here! I can answer that question by another. What are you doing here? Why are you going to Africa?”
“I am going,” Trent said, “to see how much truth there was in that story you told me. I am going to see old Monty if he is alive.”
Da Souza groaned.
“It is cruel madness,” he said, “and you are such an obstinate man! Oh dear! oh dear!”
“I prefer,” Trent said, “a crisis now, to ruin in the future. Besides, I have the remnants of a conscience.”
“You will ruin yourself, and you will ruin me,” Da Souza moaned. “How am I to have a quarter share if Monty is to come in for half, and how are you to repay him all that you would owe on a partnership account? You couldn't do it, Trent. I've heard of your four-in-hand, and your yacht, and your racers, and that beautiful house in Park Lane. I tell you that to part with half your fortune would ruin you, and the Bekwando Company could never be floated.”
“I don't anticipate parting with half,” Trent said coolly. “Monty hasn't long to live—and he ought not to be hard to make terms with.”
Da Souza beat his hands upon the handles of his deck-chair.
“But why go near him at all? He thinks that you are dead. He has no idea that you are in England. Why should he know? Why do you risk ruin like this?”
“There are three reasons,” Trent answered. “First, he may find his way to England and upset the applecart; secondly, I've only the shreds of a conscience, but I can't leave a man whom I'm robbing of a fortune in a state of semi-slavery, as I daresay he is, and the third reason is perhaps the strongest of all; but I'm not going to tell it you.”