“Kate, child, Kate!”
“Hush! No, no—not now. Here is George. Good-night.”
Yes, truly! The—man—finds—it—out—soon—enough!
In the morning Nairn and his horse were gone, and there was not a vestige of a trace to show how, why, or where! It was several days later that Geddy, who had been away for some weeks, dined at Heron’s, and, as they were sitting on the stoep smoking and chatting, remarked:
“By the way, fancy whom I met on the way in! Our old friend Induna Nairn, looking ghastly, poor devil! Said he’d had a spill crossing a river or something. Surlier than ever. Glared at me with positive hatred when I asked him where he was going to to escape civilisation, and said, ‘Zambesi, or hell.’ I could make nothing of him. Can’t stand chaff, you know; never could. But I heard all about him from old Tom Callan—‘Hot Tom,’ you know.”
Heron looked up curiously, but did not interrupt.
“It seems he’s quite a great gun among the niggers—a real Induna. Did you know that? I thought it was only a nickname, but it isn’t. He’s a sort of relation of the king’s, etc.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”