Mr. Heard was slightly nettled. After all, he was not on Nepenthe for the purpose of doling out consolations to melancholy undergraduates.
"I should be sorry to think myself singled out for his distrust," he replied. "At the same time, I don't notice that he has much to say to certain other people—to the Commissioner, for instance, or to Mr. Muhlen."
"Muhlen? He is quite right to leave Muhlen alone. Quite right. It proves his intuition. I have learnt all about that man. A beastly character. He has a bad record. Lives on blackmail and women. His real name is Retlow."
And Mr. Keith lit a cigar, as though to dismiss the subject.
"Retlow, you say? That's queer."
The name sounded familiar to the bishop. Where had he heard it before? He racked his memory. Where could it have been? Retlow…. It was not a common name. Long ago, obviously. Where?
In African days, or earlier?
His searchings were interrupted by the voice of the old boatman who, relinquishing an oar, pointed to a swart precipice near at hand and said in tolerable English (the older generation of natives all spoke English—their children were learning Russian):
"The suicides' rock, gentlemens. Ah! Many is the poor Christian I have
pick up there. He throw down hisself. Him dead. Often in small pieces.
Here blood. Here brain. Here leg and boot. Here finger. Ah! The poor
Chiristian. That so, gentlemens."
The bishop scanned with a shudder this frowning cliff of basalt, and turned to address his companion.