Before the butler realized what the man was doing, he had slipped off one of his ugly shoes. He wore no sock or stocking underneath, and he upturned the sole of his bare foot for inspection. The flesh was seamed and puckered into red weals, and the butler knew the cause.
“Portuguese,” said the visitor tersely as he resumed his shoe. “Not niggers—Portugooses—half-bred, I’ll admit. They burnt me to make me talk, and they’d have killed me only one of those hell-fire American traders came along—full of fight and fire-water. He brought me into the town.”
“Where was this?” asked the butler.
“Mosamades: I went ashore to look round, like a fool. I was on a Woerman boat that was going up to Boma. The skipper was a Hun, but white—he warned me.”
“And what did they want to know from you?”
The caller shot a suspicious glance at his interrogator.
“Are you the boss?” he demanded.
“No—I’m Mr. Manfred’s butler. What name shall I tell him?”
“Barberton—Mister Samuel Barberton. Tell him I want certain things found out. The address of a young lady by the name of Miss Mirabelle Leicester. And I’ll tell your governor something too. This Portugoose got drunk one night, and spilled it about the fort they’ve got in England. Looks like a house but it’s a fort: he went there. . . .”
No, he was not drunk; stooping to pick up an imaginary match-stalk, the butler’s head had come near the visitor; there was a strong aroma of tobacco but not of drink.