In silence Norah wondered. The senior officials, he had said, were away from the Boma and he had returned, his story untold. But relief or suspense, she knew, could not explain this change. Under her eyelashes all evening she watched him and sought in vain for some word that might allay his trouble. Throughout the night she heard the camp bed creak under his restless body.
Was it then that he was first aware of his fellowship with the men whose names shame alone preserves when quicklime has consumed their bodies? Did Dick's eyes again look pitifully into the muzzle of his .420? Did he strive once more to straighten the stiffened limbs and push the contorted body sideways into the wet grave? There can, I suppose, be little sleep on the first night you see yourself a murderer.
In the morning a glance told Norah that the fever, which had fantastically vanished after the rains had drenched him to the skin, was back. He sat huddled over the camp fire, only moving to call for logs. She urged him to return to bed, but he shook his head. He refused luncheon, and sat with pen and paper before him. Then he began to write. His hand shook with fever, but he wrote fairly quickly. He covered three sheets and addressed an envelope for each.
Still crouching over the fire, 'Norah,' he said, 'I think I ought to give it you to read.'
His tone told her she must brace herself for a shock.
'They won't bother you, I hope,' he went on, 'I've tried to make it all right for you.' He kept his eyes turned away from her, but his voice was more kind. His hand, which trembled a little, played with the letters on the table.
'This,' he continued, 'is to the solicitors. About the farm, the sale of the stock and so on. This,' he touched the second letter, 'is my will. Of course everything goes to you.'
He paused and, drawing the last document from its envelope, he handed it to Norah.
She forced herself to read, though her mind was too busy with his words to take in the symbols before her eyes. Suddenly, as if a blade of ice had been driven between her shoulders, she understood.
The letter was addressed to the District Commissioner, Abercorn, and began and ended officially enough, 'Sir, I have the honour to report ... I have the honour to be, Sir, your obedient servant, A. L. Sinclair.'