were in luck’s way, Mr Ancram,” he said. “That’s an awful bit of country. More than one man has gone missing there and never been heard of again.” And the whimsicality of Peters’ look was enhanced.
“I suppose you haven’t seen much of the country then?” went on Driffield. “I wonder if you’d care to come along with me now. I could show you a pretty wild slice of it, and any number of Matabele at home, into the bargain.”
“There’s your chance, Ancram,” cried Peters. “By Jove! there’s your chance.”
“I should like it. But – er – is it safe?” replied Ancram, bearing in mind Lamont’s remarks the night of his arrival. Driffield stared, then choked down his efforts not to splutter.
“Safe?” he said. “Well, I’ve got a life to lose, and so has Ames. And we neither of us expect to lose it just yet.”
“Yes; I’d like to come, but – I’ve no horse.”
“Daresay I can lend you one,” said Lamont. “You’ll want a couple of blankets too. How are your donkeys loaded, Driffield?”
“Lightly loaded, so that won’t be in the way. Very well, then. Can you be ready in an hour’s time?”
“Oh, there’s no such hurry, Driffield,” urged Peters. “Now you’ve lugged me away from my millionaire factory, you must make it worth while, and let’s have time for a smoke and a yarn.”
The Native Commissioner agreed to start an hour later; and then there was much chaff at Peters’ expense in his prospecting operations. Then Driffield said —
“You’ll be coming over to the race meeting at Gandela, I suppose, Lamont?”
“Don’t know. When is it?”
“End of week after next.”
“I don’t care much for race meetings.”
“Oh, but there’ll be a regular gymkhana – tent-pegging and all sorts of fun. Oh, and Miss Vidal says you are to be sure and turn up.”
“Oh, get out with you, Driffield, and take that yarn somewhere else.”
“It’s a solemn fact, Lamont. She was booming you no end the other day – saying what a devil of a chap you were, and all that sort of thing. I asked her if I should tell you to roll up at the race meeting, and she answered in that candid, innocent way of hers ‘Of course.’ You can’t stay away after that. Can he, Peters?”
“Not much.”
“Oh well, I’ll go then.”
“You’re in luck’s way, Lamont. Miss Vidal’s far and away the nicest girl anywhere round here.”
“She’s all that, I allow.” But a subtle note in the tone was not lost upon one – and that one Ancram.
“So there is a girl in the case!” pronounced that worthy to himself. “I thought there would be. And he would have cleared me out? Not yet, friend Lamont. Not yet! Not until I’ve turned you to real good, material use.” And he now congratulated himself upon the Native Commissioner’s invitation to join his expedition, for in the course of the same he would contrive to pump that official on the subject of Lamont and his circumstances and standing in the locality, in such wise that it would be hard if he could not turn the knowledge to the account of his own especial advantage.
Chapter Six.
The Desire of Gandela
“What on earth have you been doing to Jim Steele, Clare?” said Mrs Fullerton, as she came into her drawing-room, and sank into a cane chair. “He passed me in the gate looking as black as thunder. He made a lug at his hat, growled like a dog, and was off like a shot. Look! there he goes,” pointing to a fast-receding figure pounding down the strip of dusty road that fronted the straggling line of unpretentious bungalows.
“I only refused him,” was the half-laughing, half-sad reply. “What else was I to do when I don’t care two brass buttons about the man? Really, Lucy, there are drawbacks attendant on life in a country where there are not enough women to go round. He is only the fifth since I’ve been up here.” Even had there been enough women to go round, as the speaker put it, assuredly she herself would not have come in last among them, if there are any powers of attraction in an oval face and straight features, a profusion of golden-brown hair, deep blue Irish eyes thickly fringed with dark lashes, and a mouth of the Cupid-bow order. Add to this a beautifully proportioned figure, rather tall than short, and it is hardly to be wondered that most of the men in the township of Gandela and all the region round about went mad over Clare Vidal. Her married sister, Lucy Fullerton, formed a complete contrast, in that she was short and matronly of build, but she was a bright, pretty, winsome little thing, and correspondingly popular.
“Well, you shouldn’t be so dangerous, you queenly Clare,” she retorted, unpinning her hat and flinging it across the room. “Really it was an act of deadly hostility towards all our good friends to have brought you up here to play football with their hearts and their peace of mind. Not that Jim Steele is any great catch, poor fellow.”
“Oh, he’ll get over it,” said Clare. “They all do.”
From this it must not be imputed to her that she was vain and heartless. For the first, she was wonderfully free from vanity considering her powers of attraction. For the last, her own heart had never been touched, wherefore she was simply unable to understand the feeling in the case of other people, apart from the fact that her words were borne out by the results of her own observation.
“There was Captain Isard,” went on Mrs Fullerton, “and Mr Slark, who they say has good prospects, and will be a baronet at his father’s death. You sent them to the right-about too.”
“For the first – life in the Matabeleland Mounted Police doesn’t strike me as ideal,” laughed Clare. “For the second – fancy going through life labelled Slark. Even, eventually, Lady Slark wouldn’t palliate it. Besides, I don’t care twopence for either.”
“Who do you care twopence for, among all this throwing of handkerchiefs? There’s Mr Lamont – ”
“He never made a fool of himself in that way. He hasn’t got it in him,” struck in Clare, speaking rather more quickly.
Her sister smiled to herself at this kindling of animation.
“Hasn’t got it in him?” she repeated, innocently mischievous. “You mean he’s too great a fool?”
“I mean just the reverse. He’s got too much in him.”
“But – you know, dear, what they say about him – that he’s – er – a bit of a funkstick.”
“Bit of a funkstick! Pooh! Look at his face, Lucy. How can a man with a face like that have an atom of cowardice in his composition? Why, it’s too ridiculous.” And the whole-souled contempt which Clare infused into this vindication would have inspired wild exultation in the breast of any one of her multifold adorers near and far, had it been uttered in his own behalf. Yet her acquaintance with the object thereof was of the slightest. “Well, you know they say that one evening there was a bit of a row on over at the hotel – horrid, quarrelsome, fighting creatures men are – and someone insulted Lamont, or trod on his toes, or something, and, when he objected, the other wanted him to fight;
