Between the formulæ, ran a story designed to shield her and convict himself. He wrote that Ward, at his request, had been escorting Norah to Kigoma. They were all to meet there. The Mimi broke down, but chance united them in the bay of the deserted mission. On the evening of the 25th he had gone out shooting with Ward. Their tempers had suffered from the heat. He had complained of Ward's over-liberal expenditure of ammunition, which was then short. A quarrel had ensued and he had shot Ward through the heart. With legal forethought he gave the exact position of the grave that the body might be identified and death established.
She read the bald story word by word to its end.
'For God's sake, Archie,' she asked him, although she knew his answer only too well, 'what are you going to do with this?'
He said that Matao must take it to Abercorn. His fever would not let him walk so far. He muttered something about feeling clean again.
'Don't, Archie, don't! Give it back to me!' Her voice made the natives break off their occupations and stare at the eccentricities of the white man. He looked in her face as if her eyes could show him her soul. Then he turned away shaking his head.
'But you've got fever,' she urged, 'you don't know what you're doing. Write what you were going to say yesterday.'
For answer he called Matao.
'One can pay too much, just to live,' he murmured.
'At least wait. Think it over in cold blood. Wait a day, one day.'
Lavater, he replied, came back that afternoon. The death would have to be reported at once, one version or the other. He now knew which version it must be.