"I am Scot," said the other. "Met you on board the correillo. Come to the smoking-room and let's get a drink."
The smoking-room was unoccupied and they sat down in a corner. Kit thought Scot had not wanted to meet him, and was curious. The fellow talked awkwardly and the side of his face was marked by a red scar.
"You picked up my bullet," he said.
"I did," Kit admitted. "Meant to give it you back, but I forgot. Do you want the thing?"
"I'd like to know what you did with it."
"Austin got the bullet. I gave it him one evening when we were talking about Africa."
"You gave it Austin!" Scot exclaimed. "After all, perhaps, it doesn't matter. I have had enough and am not going back."
"How did you get hurt?"
"For one thing, I'd put on a cloth jacket—the evenings are pretty cold—and dark serge doesn't melt into a background of stones and sand. I imagined the tribe knew me."
"Perhaps a stranger fired the shot."