CHAPTER XXXIX
Scarcely a word passed between the two men until they found themselves in the smoking-room of Trent's house. A servant noiselessly arranged decanters and cigars upon the sideboard, and, in response to an impatient movement of Trent's, withdrew. Francis lit a cigarette. Trent, contrary to his custom, did not smoke. He walked to the door and softly locked it. Then he returned and stood looking down at his companion.
“Francis,” he said, “you have been my enemy since the day I saw you first in Bekwando village.”
“Scarcely that,” Francis objected. “I have distrusted you since then if you like.”
“Call it what you like,” Trent answered. “Only to-night you have served me a scurvy trick. You were a guest at my table and you gave me not the slightest warning. On the contrary, this morning you offered me a week's respite.”
“The story I told,” Francis answered, “could have had no significance to them.”
“I don't know whether you are trying to deceive me or not,” Trent said, “only if you do not know, let me tell you—Miss Wendermott is that old man's daughter!”
The man's start was real. There was no doubt about that. “And she knew?”
“She knew that he had been in Africa, but she believed that he had died there. What she believes at this moment I cannot tell. Your story evidently moved her. She will probably try to find out from you the truth.”