"Then why have you told me now?" demanded Tom.
The boy for a few instants looked puzzled; then his features expanded in a cheerful smile as he said:
"No kiboko heah, sah! Sah little son of big sah! Sah Mbutu him fader and mudder!"
Tom could doubt no longer; truth spoke in every line and dimple of the boy's earnest face. But what was he to do? Glancing at the carriage clock on the mantel-piece, he saw that it wanted only ten minutes of seven, the hour fixed by Mr. Barkworth for dinner. He wondered if he had better consult his new friend, for whom he had already begun to entertain warm feelings of regard. Calling the major's Indian servant, he gave the boy into his hands with instructions to keep a sharp eye on him, and hurried off, his brain in a whirl.
"Ah, here you are, then!" said Mr. Barkworth, coming forward as Tom entered the bungalow, and laying a friendly hand on his shoulder. "Punctuality, now; that's a fine thing. The padre came a moment ago. I'll introduce you, h'm!"
He turned and led the way into an inner room, where Tom saw a figure that would have commanded attention in any company. It was that of a tall man of about fifty years, with clean-cut features of olive hue, mobile lips with the fine curves of a Roman orator's, and grayish hair falling back in flowing lines from his temples. He was dressed in the simple white robe of an Arab, with no ornament save a small gold cross pendent on his breast. The simplicity of his attire served only to heighten the natural dignity of his bearing.
"H'm! Mossoo--Mossoo-- Now, what on earth's the French for Thomas! Mossoo Tom Burnaby, Père Chevasse. And a fine fellow, sir," he added to Tom, sotto voce.
The missionary smiled as he shook hands.
"I have seen you already," he said in French. "I was a spectator the other day of that little scene, Mr. Burnaby, when you played the part of Good Samaritan."
"Ah!" said Mr. Barkworth, catching the phrase. "Who's been falling among thieves, padre?"