Perfectly silently, or so it seemed to me, the Kilmorden glided nearer and nearer. It was still very like a dream. Like all dreamers, however, I could not let my dream alone. We poor humans are so anxious not to miss anything.
“This is South Africa,” I kept saying to myself industriously, “South Africa, South Africa. You are seeing the world. This is the world. You are seeing it. Think of it, Anne Beddingfeld, you pudding head. You’re seeing the world.”
I had thought that I had the boat deck to myself, but now I observed another figure leaning over the rail, absorbed as I had been in the rapidly approaching city. Even before he turned his head I knew who it was. The scene of last night seemed unreal and melodramatic in the peaceful morning sunlight. What must he have thought of me? It made me hot to realize the things that I had said. And I hadn’t meant them—or had I?
I turned my head resolutely away and stared hard at Table Mountain. If Rayburn had come up here to be alone, I, at least, need not disturb him by advertising my presence.
But to my intense surprise I heard a light footfall on the deck behind me, and then his voice, pleasant and normal:
“Miss Beddingfeld.”
“Yes?”
I turned.
“I want to apologize to you. I behaved like a perfect boor last night.”
“It—it was a peculiar night,” I said hastily.
It was not a very lucid remark, but it was absolutely the only thing I could think of.
“Will you forgive me?”
I held out my hand without a word. He took it.
“There’s something else I want to say.” His gravity deepened. “Miss Beddingfeld, you may not know it, but you are mixed up in a rather dangerous business.”
“I gathered as much,” I said.
“No, you don’t. You can’t possibly know. I want to warn you. Leave the whole thing alone. It can’t concern you really. Don’t let your curiosity lead you to tamper with other people’s business. No, please don’t get angry again. I’m not speaking of myself. You’ve no idea of what you might come up against—these men will stop at nothing. They are absolutely ruthless. Already you’re in danger—look at last night. They fancy you know something. Your only chance is to persuade them that they’re mistaken. But be careful, always be on the look out for danger, and, look here, if at any time you should fall into their hands, don’t try and be clever—tell the whole truth, it will be your only chance.”
“You make my flesh creep, Mr. Rayburn,” I said, with some truth. “Why do you take the trouble to warn me?”
He did not answer for some minutes, then he said in a low voice:
“It may be the last thing I can do for you. Once on shore I shall be all right—but I may not get on shore.”
“What?” I cried.
“You see, I’m afraid you’re not the only person on board who knows that I am the ‘man in the brown suit.’ ”
“If you think that I told—” I said hotly.
He reassured me with a smile.
“I don’t doubt you, Miss Beddingfeld. If I ever said I did, I lied. No, but there’s one person on board who’s known all along. He’s only got to speak—and my number’s up. All the same, I’m taking a sporting chance that he won’t speak.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a man who likes playing a lone hand. And when the police have got me I should be of no further use to him. Free, I might be! Well, an hour will show.”
He laughed rather mockingly, but I saw his face harden. If he had gambled with fate, he was a good gambler. He could lose and smile.
“In any case,” he said lightly, “I don’t suppose we shall meet again.”
“No,” I said slowly. “I suppose not.”
“So—goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
He gripped my hand hard, just for a minute his curious light eyes seemed to burn into mine, then he turned abruptly and left me. I heard his footsteps ringing along the deck. They echoed and reechoed. I felt that I should hear them always. Footsteps—going out of my life.
I can admit frankly that I did not enjoy the next two hours. Not till I stood on the wharf, having finished with most of the ridiculous formalities that bureaucracies require, did I breathe freely once more. No arrest had been made, and I realized that it was a heavenly day, and that I was extremely hungry. I joined Suzanne. In any case, I was staying the night with her at the hotel. The boat did not go on to Port Elizabeth and Durban until the following morning. We got into a taxi and drove to the Mount Nelson.
It was all heavenly. The sun, the air, the flowers! When I thought of Little Hampsly in January, the mud knee-deep, and the sure-to-be-falling rain, I hugged myself with delight. Suzanne was not nearly so enthusiastic. She has travelled a great deal of course. Besides, she is not the type that gets excited before breakfast. She snubbed me severely when I let out an enthusiastic yelp at the sight of a giant blue convolvulus.
By the way, I should like to make it clear here and now that this story will not be a story of South Africa. I guarantee no genuine local colour—you know the sort of thing—half a dozen words in italics on every page. I admire it very much, but I can’t do it. In South Sea Islands, of course, you make an immediate reference to bêche-de-mer. I don’t know what bêche-de-mer is, I never have known, I probably never shall know. I’ve guessed once or twice and guessed wrong. In South Africa I know you at once begin to talk about a stoep—I do know what a stoep is—it’s the thing round a house and you sit on it. In various other parts of the world you call it a
