Two men, Cathcart and his assistant, who was only a boy, were lounging in low chairs. As he entered they looked up, exchanging quick, startled glances. Then Cathcart gave vent to a little exclamation.
“Great Heavens, Trent, what have you been doing?” Trent sank into a chair. “Get me some wine,” he said. “I am all right but over-tired.”
Cathcart poured champagne into a tumbler. Trent emptied it at a gulp and asked for biscuits. The man's recuperative powers were wonderful. Already the deathly whiteness was passing from his cheeks.
“Where is Da Souza?” he asked.
“Gone back to England,” Cathcart answered, looking out of the open casement shaded from the sun by the sloping roof. “His steamer started yesterday.”
Trent was puzzled. He scarcely understood this move.
“Did he give any reason?”
Cathcart smoked for a moment in silence. After all though a disclosure would be unpleasant, it was inevitable and as well now as any time. “I think,” Cathcart said, “that he has gone to try and sell his shares in the Bekwando concessions.”
“Gone—to—sell—his—shares!” Trent repeated slowly. “You mean to say that he has gone straight from here to put a hundred thousand Bekwando shares upon the market?”
Cathcart nodded.