"He came to England when I was a boy."
Ellams smiled. "When I saw you cross the compound, I thought Rupert Wyndham had come back. Wait a moment; I have his portrait."
He brought a faded and mildewed photograph. Wyndham studied it, without speaking, and then gave it to Marston, who made a little gesture of surprise. He imagined Rupert Wyndham was about his comrade's age when the portrait was taken, and the likeness was strange. There was in both faces a hint of recklessness and unrest, although the hint was plainer in the portrait. It indicated that Rupert would venture much and take paths sober men did not tread. Somehow it disturbed Marston.
"I suppose you know he vanished in the West Indies?" Wyndham remarked.
"Yes," said Ellams quietly. "I half expected something like this——"
"Ah!" said Wyndham. "Well, we've done with business for to-night. Tell me about my uncle."
Ellams drained his glass and Marston noted that his hand shook. The man had obviously suffered much from ague and fever.
"Rupert Wyndham was here before me," Ellams began. "Procter was agent when he arrived and Procter had got some native habits. That's a risk men who indulge their curiosity run in Africa. There's danger of forgetting one is white. I imagine it was unlucky Rupert began with Procter; his was a strange, adventurous temperament——"
"I'm told I have some of Rupert's characteristics," Wyndham remarked. "But go on."
"When your uncle came out, there was no rule but the negro headman's. British authority stopped a few miles from the outpost stockade, and traders made their own laws; they lived and drank hard. In some ways, things are not very different yet. We kill mosquitoes and dig drains, but Africa doesn't change.