He had made a promise, carelessly, not knowing what he said, just to humour his uncle. Nevertheless he had given his word. Was he bound to keep it? Well for that matter, he was a Hume.
Taking an atlas from the shelf, he studied the East Coast of Africa, and the course of the Limpopo from its mouth. As far as his uncle had drawn, his sketch tallied with the map, and so exactly indeed that he must have filled in the original rough draft from the printed map.
Folding up the much-creased paper with a sigh, he paced up and down the room, tugging at his moustache, a blank look on his manly face. Suddenly stopping opposite a mirror, and seeing his reflection, he broke into a loud laugh.
“Hang it! what a brute I am! But it’s too absurd, this legacy of a Golden Rock which does not exist. Well, at any rate, I can use up the bank balance in making a hunting trip to the spot, and after that—”
He shrugged his shoulders, and went out to see about executing the will.
Chapter Two.
A Mystery.
Frank Hume had some of that tenacity of purpose which had made his uncle a successful hunter and Kaffir trader. He saw plainly enough the quixotic side of the quest to which he was committed, but he was not one of those who ask, “Is it worth while?” and “Where is the good?” if confronted with any undertaking not obviously practical.