CHAPTER IX
The girl had moved a step towards him as she spoke, and a gleam of sunlight which had found its way into the grove flashed for a moment on the stray little curls of her brown-gold hair and across her face. Her lips were parted in a delightful smile; she was very pretty, and inclined to be apologetic. But Scarlett Trent had seen nothing save that first glance when the sun had touched her face with fire. A strong man at all times, and more than commonly self-masterful, he felt himself now as helpless as a child. A sudden pallor had whitened his face to the lips, there were strange singings in his ears, and a mist before his eyes. It was she! There was no possibility of any mistake. It was the girl for whose picture he had gambled in the hut at Bekwando—Monty's baby-girl, of whom he had babbled even in death. He leaned against a tree, stricken dumb, and she was frightened. “You are ill,” she cried. “I'm so sorry. Let me run to the house and fetch some one!”
He had strength enough to stop her. A few deep breaths and he was himself again, shaken and with a heart beating like a steam-engine, but able at least to talk intelligently.
“I'm sorry—didn't mean to frighten you,” he said. “It's the heat. I get an attack like this sometimes. Yes, I'm Mr. Trent. I don't know what you're doing here, but you're welcome.”
“How nice of you to say so!” she answered brightly. “But then perhaps you'll change your mind when you know what I have been doing.”
He laughed shortly.
“Nothing terrible, I should say. Looks as though you've been making a picture of my house; I don't mind that.”
She dived in her pocket and produced a card-case.
“I'll make full confession,” she said frankly. “I'm a journalist.”