“He’s in it, I guess. He has his finger in every pie, an’ some of ‘em have bin jolly hot. Now, go ahead. If it’s at all awkward, leave me to fill in a bit about the Ditch Mile an’ the Epsom gradients that will bamboozle Baumgartner.”
Evelyn did her best. Fairholme was delighted with Warden’s description of the baccarat and roulette incidents, but his face lengthened when he heard Rosamund’s allusions to himself. Once, Evelyn forgot his stipulation, and spoke of the “men of Oku.”
“Oku,” broke in Fairholme, “where is that?”
“It is a savage native state in West Africa. That is the one name you must not remember, Lord Fairholme.”
He did not interrupt again till she had finished reading. Then she told him how Peter Evans had brought her the ring and the letter; and, finding him sympathetic, she explained the extraordinary chance that led to Warden’s capture by a Mohammedan fanatic at Rabat.
“Funny thing!” he said, when she had made an end. “That chap Figuero joined my steamer at Lisbon.”
“He is not here?” cried Evelyn, genuinely startled, for she feared Figuero.
“Yes, he is. I fancy he’s on board the Sans Souci. I didn’t speak to him; I have a notion that he didn’t recognize me under my new name. We also picked up a number of German officers at the same port, but they left us at Funchal, where another ship took them on to the Cameroons. That is German West Africa, isn’t it?”
“I believe so. My geographical knowledge of this part of the world is of the vaguest. It dates chiefly from last night.”
“When the naval Johnny was showing you the map, I suppose?”