The same feeling of loneliness, that sense of being shut out, clung to him after he left De Aar. It remained with him throughout the journey to Johannesburg. But with the sight of the straggling town, of its innumerable buildings and red streets, its busy crowded station, other emotions held him, and obliterated for a time the strange unaccustomed sensation of being adrift and without bearings. At least he could find his bearings here. He knew very well what he intended to do.
He drove to his old rooms and settled in. Then he went straightway to ascertain if there was any likelihood of getting back with his old firm, and was more successful than he had anticipated. The firm had a big Government contract at Cape Town and was glad to take him on in connexion with the work. That settled the uncertainty as to his future finances.
He returned to his rooms considerably lightened in spirit, and with as many daily papers as he could procure. He had been living out of the world, and had not the remotest idea of what was going on in it. There is nothing so isolating as existing without newspapers. Beyond a Dutch paper, principally concerned with agricultural matters, which Andreas received once a week, no newspaper, so far as Matheson was aware, ever found its way to the farm.
Having read his papers, which contained nothing of particular interest—the country was still recovering from the stupefying effects of the great strike and the subsequent deportations, and did not appear to have altogether regained its breath—he went out again for the purpose of hunting up Holman and having a plain talk with him. He found him in the private room he called his office, where he transacted business principally through the medium of the telephone, and received the few callers who penetrated the mysteries of the winding passage and outer premises which led to the rather squalid quarters he inhabited at the lower end of the town.
He was, Matheson learned on arrival from the youthful clerk, who seemed to do little beyond guard the inner sanctum and scan the daily news, engaged for the moment. Since no one emerged from the inner room while he waited, and no one was present when a few minutes later, in response to the ring of a bell, he was conducted by the clerk to the presence, the inference was that the engagement was telephonic. Holman was alone, seated at his desk. His hand fell from the receiver as the door opened and closed upon his visitor. He swung round on his swivel chair and welcomed Matheson cordially.
“You never sent me any word,” he said. “When did you arrive? I’ve been expecting you daily for the past week. You haven’t hurried.”
He could not fail to notice the very obvious fact that his extended hand was ignored, nor that the cordiality of his manner received no response. He waved the neglected hand in the direction of a seat.
“Sit down,” he said, and crossed one leg over the other and regarded Matheson closely, fidgeting idly and with a suggestion of nervousness in the quick, uncertain movement of his fingers, with the pen on his blotting pad. “Now, let me hear all about it,” he resumed.
Matheson seated himself.
“Well, in the first place,” he said, leaning forward with his hands upon his knees, “I had better state at once that I know a good deal about this damnable business... not through the Kriges... there was a sort of conspiracy to keep me in the dark—Krige never talked to me. I learned what I know from Herman Nel. Nel called you a damned scoundrel... and I endorse his sentiments. Have you anything to say to that?”