Passing that way an hour or so later, Hans Marais and Charlie Considine came upon the spoor of the lioness.
“I say, Charlie,” called out Hans, “there must be a lion in the vley there. I’ve got the spoor. Come here.”
“It’s not in the vley now,” replied Charlie; “come here yourself; I’ve found blood, and, hallo! here’s a newspaper! Why, it must be a literary lion! Look, Hans, can you make out the name?—Howker, Dowker, or something o’ that sort. Do lions ever go by that name?”
“Bowker,” exclaimed Hans, with a laugh. “Ah! my boy, there’s no lion in the vley if the Bowkers have been here; and see, it’s all plain as a pikestaff. They shot it here and skinned it there, and have dragged the carcass towards that bush; yes, here it is—a lioness. They’re back to camp by this time. Come, let’s follow them.”
As they rode along, Hans, who had been glancing at the newspaper, turned suddenly to his companion.
“I say, Charlie, here’s a strange coincidence. It’s not every day that a man finds a Times newspaper in the wilds of Southern Africa with a message in it to himself.”
“What do you mean, Hans?”
“Tell me, Charlie, about that uncle of whom you once spoke to me—long ago—in rather disrespectful tones, if not terms. Was he rich?”
“I believe so, but was never quite certain as to that.”
“Did he like you?”