In his study Sir George Barclay sat alone. Sixteen years had passed since, in far-away Gambia, he had had to condemn to death the marauding Arab chief. In a few weeks' time he would be returning to the country, not in any minor capacity, but as its Governor.
Although his thoughts just then were in Gambia, the incident of the shooting of the Sultan Casim Ammeh had long since gone from his mind. And he never gave a thought nowadays to the boy who, unavailingly, had come to the Arab chief's rescue. But he still carried the mark of the youngster's sword upon his cheek.
The passing years had changed Barclay very little. His hair was grey, his face thinner, and a studious look now lurked in the grey eyes where tragedy had once been. For, in his profession, Barclay had found some of the forgetfulness he had set out in search of.
As he sat at his desk the door opened suddenly. The manner of opening told him that the daughter he imagined to be a thousand or more miles away was home again. For no one, save this cherished legacy from his lost love, would enter his study with such lack of ceremony.
He looked round quickly, as a slim girl in ermine and purple velvet entered.
"Why, Pansy, my darling, I thought you were in Grand Canary," he said, rising quickly to greet her.
"So I was, father, five days ago. And then ... and then——!"
She paused, and laughing in a rather forced manner, kissed him affectionately.
"Father, will you take me out to Gambia with you?" she finished.
There was very little George Barclay ever refused his daughter. On this occasion, he did make some sort of stand.