“How I hate that man!” he exclaimed at length. “Thank God—he is dead—because I should have killed him.”
Guy Oscard looked at him with a slow pensive wonder. Perhaps he knew more than Jack Meredith knew himself of the thoughts that conceived those words—so out of place in that quiet room, from those suave and courtly lips.
All the emotions of his life seemed to be concentrated into this one day of Jack Meredith's existence. Oscard's presence was a comfort to him—the presence of a calm, strong man is better than many words.
“So this,” he said, “is the end of the Simiacine. It did not look like a tragedy when we went into it.”
“So far as I am concerned,” replied Oscard, with quiet determination, “it certainly is the end of the Simiacine! I have had enough of it. I, for one, am not going to look for that Plateau again.”
“Nor I. I suppose it will be started as a limited liability company by a German in six months. Some of the natives will leave landmarks as they come down so as to find their way back.”
“I don't think so!”
“Why?”
Oscard took his pipe from his lips.
“When Durnovo came down to Msala,” he explained, “he had the sleeping sickness on him. Where did he get it from?”