He grew cheerful after this, and very soon persuaded himself that such must be the case. Indeed, before he had finished dressing he was mentally regarding Mr Raybold as a dark conspirator, only waiting events to ripen, to blossom out into a daring hero of the William Tell order.
Ned, when he got into his room, also locked his door behind him; then he unlaced his boots, and putting his hand inside, pulled out the folded sheet of paper.
It was not so clear as he should have liked, but the address was readable and the paper intact.
He was too honourable to open the missive, although, had he done so, he would have been no wiser, as the contents were written in cypher. The address was as follows:—
“Mr Philip Martin, Johannesburg.”
Having read it, and noted the name, he wrapped it up within a clean piece of notepaper, and placed it for the time within his purse.
He meant to ask his host that night if he knew this gentleman, and if so, he would call upon him after dinner.
But by good luck, when he got down to the library, where Mr Raybold was waiting for his young guests, he found the very man he wanted. He had come to dine with Mr Raybold.
Ned looked at the man whom the great empire-maker had written to with interest, nor was he disappointed in his ideal.
Philip Martin was a strong man, and looked a bold one also. He was about five feet eight inches in height, with a deep, wide chest and a massive neck. He had a good deal the air of a sailor about him, which his navy-blue serge suit and turned-down collar helped. His eyes were dark and piercingly bright, while over them were thick black eyebrows. His beard was cut short and pointed, and his features were pronounced, while his complexion was swarthy. He was quick and decided in his motions, and had a sonorous voice that loomed through the room. Altogether he looked a man of strength, character, and indomitable will. Just the sort of man that Ned could admire.