“The old scoundrel!” said Geddy, reaching for the book; “he must have found it while we were yet in sight. I left it in a hut in one of the kraals.”
“Yes; I’m afraid he was an old thief,” said Nairn. “The raw Swazie would think nothing of a twenty or thirty mile jaunt to return it; but these witch-doctors are mostly old Basuto ruffians, steeped in guile. They have few scruples when there is a prospect of profit.”
“On my word,” laughed Heron, “I don’t know what you may not know about us with agencies like this, and a whole nation making a confidante of you! What a rum life you do lead!”
Nairn looked at him curiously, and remarking dryly that they were a very peculiar people, rose from his seat, and made it clear that he thought it time for bed. He showed them to his own room, where an extra bed had been fixed up, and wishing them “Good-night,” left them.
Quoth Geddy:
“I didn’t like to ask him where he would sleep if we took his room, as one feels bound to do in common civility. I’d have got another of those gentle cold-blooded sneers for my pains. You know, old chap, with all due respect—and all that sort of thing—for our host, he’s beastly uncivil the moment you ask questions. It’s a regular case of scratch the Russian and you find the Tartar.”
“Yes; you’re right. Although it seems a bit ungrateful to say so, I’m dashed if I’d care to have much to do with him. Did you see him shut up when I remarked about his living a queer life? Gad! his lips closed up until they fitted like the valves of an oyster. He’s as suspicious as the devil!”
“I say, look here—a photo! Just look, man! ‘Harrison Nairn’ on the back of it! Quite a decent-looking chap. Heron, I wonder who she is?”
“God knows! I don’t!”
“Someone else’s, you can bet, or he wouldn’t lie so low, eh?”