As I expected, I found him astir in his hut; he was engaged in pressing flowers by candlelight.
“John,” I said, “I have brought you some property which I think you have lost,” and I handed him the morocco-bound Christian Year and the water-colour drawing which we had found in the sacked mission house at Kilwa.
He looked first at the picture and then at the book; at least, I suppose he did, for I went outside the hut for a while—to observe the sunrise. In a few minutes he called me, and when the door was shut, said in an unsteady voice:
“How did you come by these relics, Allan?”
I told him the story from beginning to end. He listened without a word, and when I had finished said:
“I may as well tell what perhaps you have guessed, that the picture is that of my wife, and the book is her book.”
“Is!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, Allan. I say is because I do not believe that she is dead. I cannot explain why, any more than I could explain last night how that great Zulu savage was able to prophesy my coming. But sometimes we can wring secrets from the Unknown, and I believe that I have won this truth in answer to my prayers, that my wife still lives.”
“After twenty years, John?”
“Yes, after twenty years. Why do you suppose,” he asked almost fiercely, “that for two-thirds of a generation I have wandered about among African savages, pretending to be crazy because these wild people revere the mad and always let them pass unharmed?”