The outlines of the famous Table Mountain were already showing above the horizon, and the end of the voyage in sight when Van der Wyck turned abruptly to his cabin-mate.
Colin and the Afrikander were engaged in packing their cabin-trunks when the latter asked:
"How are you going upcountry?"
"We're taking a boat to Dar-es-Salaam," replied Sinclair, "and then train to Tabora."
"H'm—might almost as well go up from here by train—through Mafeking and Bulawayo to Kambove, and then by steamer across Tanganyika. Don't know, though; perhaps you'd better carry on. We might have kept together as far as Mafeking. But we may run across one another again. If you want to write, Box 445B Mafeking will find me." Colin made a note in his pocket-book of the address.
"And look here," continued Van der Wyck, pushing his portmanteau aside and looking straight at his companion. "Look here, forget all I told you about Makoh'lenga—if you can. It's not exactly—— well, healthy. No white man ever did himself any good by trying to probe the secrets of the place. I'm sorry I ever mentioned the place or the people to you."
The Afrikander's almost fierce earnestness took Colin aback. Naturally the lad wished for an explanation, but none was forthcoming. Van der Wyck resumed his packing with almost feverish energy, never saying a word until, with a vicious tug, he secured the buckle of the last strap.
"Yes," he reiterated, apparently regardless of the fact that he had not spoken for quite ten minutes. "I'm sorry I ever mentioned the place. However, what's said cannot be unsaid. I owe you something, Sinclair, for hiking me out of the ditch——"
"No, indeed," interrupted Colin in protest. "You thanked me. That was quite enough."
"It's my call," declared Van der Wyck. "You were a good chum. I'd have thought twice before jumping overboard on a dark night—or in the daytime," he added grimly, "since I can't swim. So I want you to take this as a souvenir."