The trader handed Maxwell a little tuft of leopard's fur braided with fiber.
"If Niven has told you any of his secrets it might be good policy not to mention it," he cautioned; "and Gilby and I are not curious. This factory is sufficiently remunerative and deadly for us."
Niven grew rapidly weaker all day, and when Maxwell asked him at sunset whether he had any messages to send to friends in the old country, he did not appear to recognize him.
"They're all dead a long time ago," he said ramblingly. "Poor Elsie, who was worlds too good for me, lies in clean English earth a long way across the sea; but Lyle, who understands everything and why I forgot him, is waiting for me. I could not have a better comrade wherever he is."
These were his last comprehensible words, for he passed out of existence, sleeping, with the chill of early morning, and was, as usual, laid to rest that day. Maxwell returned thoughtfully from the simple funeral, feeling that the legacy might well prove an unmixed blessing.
On reaching the veranda stairway, he heard somebody moving softly about what had been the sick man's room. He had good ears, and felt tolerably certain that the next sound he caught was that made by cotton garments being quickly unfolded or wrapped together. Somebody, it appeared, was searching Niven's apparel. In spite of Maxwell's quickness, he had not reached the doorway when a man came out of it and advanced, smiling toward him. He was rather dark in face and full in flesh for an European who had dwelt any time in Western Africa. He also was more elaborately dressed, in spotless white duck, fine linen, and silk sash, than the average trader; but if his lips were a trifle thick, and his eyes cunning, he had an easy, good-humored air, and saluted Maxwell gracefully.
"Monsieur Maxwell, is it not? I have the honor to present myself—Victor Rideau," he said. "By grand misfortune, I arrive too late to change the adieux with my friend of long time, the estimable Niven, and so wait to ask if he left any paper for me. We have affair together, and there is small debt he owe me, voyez vous?"
Maxwell was a man of keen perceptions, and he would have distrusted the speaker even if he had not been warned against him.
"He left you no papers. Neither, so far as I can discover, did he leave a single franc piece in money."
"Grand misfortune!" exclaimed Rideau. "Possible it is he tell you of his affair. The estimable Niven, you understand, was old friend of me. That is why I have the pleasure of wait your company."