There was a pause. Presently Davidson went on, in his tranquil manner:
“Let Heaven look after what has been purified. The wind and rain will take care of the ashes. The carcass of that follower, secretary, or whatever the unclean ruffian called himself, I left where it lay, to swell and rot in the sun. His principal had shot him neatly through the head. Then, apparently, this Jones went down to the wharf to look for the boat and for the hairy man. I suppose he tumbled into the water by accident—or perhaps not by accident. The boat and the man were gone, and the scoundrel saw himself alone, his game clearly up, and fairly trapped. Who knows? The water's very clear there, and I could see him huddled up on the bottom, between two piles, like a heap of bones in a blue silk bag, with only the head and the feet sticking out. Wang was very pleased when he discovered him. That made everything safe, he said, and he went at once over the hill to fetch his Alfuro woman back to the hut.”
Davidson took out his handkerchief to wipe the perspiration off his forehead.
“And then, your Excellency, I went away. There was nothing to be done there.”
“Clearly!” assented the Excellency.
Davidson, thoughtful, seemed to weigh the matter in his mind, and then murmured with placid sadness:
“Nothing!”
October 1912—May 1914