The commissioner looked up with a grim little smile.
“I shall have something to say to our own record department for failing to trace ‘Waxy,’ ” he said, and then resumed his reading.
“And that is everything! It disposes of our three,” he said. “I will see that ‘Waxy’ does not annoy you any more.”
“But how the dickens—” began Mr. Minute. “How the dickens does this fellow find out in so short a time?”
The commissioner shrugged his shoulders.
“He just knows,” he said.
He took leave of his visitor at the door.
“If you are bothered any more,” he said, “I should strongly advise you to go to Saul Arthur Mann. I don’t know what your real trouble is, and you haven’t told me exactly why you should fear an attack of any kind. You won’t have to tell Mr. Mann,” he said with a little twinkle in his eye.
“Why not?” asked the other suspiciously.
“Because he will know,” said the commissioner.
“The devil he will!” growled John Minute, and stumped down the broad stairs on to the Embankment, a greatly mystified man. He would have gone off to seek an interview with this strange individual there and then, for his curiosity was piqued and he had also a little apprehension, one which, in his impatient way, he desired should be allayed, but he remembered that he had asked May to lunch with him, and he was already five minutes late.
He found the girl in the broad vestibule, waiting for him, and greeted her affectionately.
Whatever may be said of John Minute that is not wholly to his credit, it cannot be said that he lacked sincerity.
There are people in Rhodesia who speak of him without love. They describe him as the greatest land thief that ever rode a Zeedersburg coach from Port Charter to Salisbury to register land that he had obtained by trickery. They tell stories of those wonderful coach drives of his with relays of twelve mules waiting every ten miles. They speak of his gambling propensities, of ten-thousand-acre farms that changed hands at the turn of a card, and there are stories that are less printable. When M’Lupi, a little Mashona chief, found gold in ’92, and refused to locate the reef, it was John Minute who staked him out and lit a grass fire on his chest until he spoke.
Many of the stories are probably exaggerated, but all Rhodesia agrees that John Minute robbed impartially friend and foe. The confidant of Lo’Ben and the Company alike, he betrayed both, and on that terrible day when it was a toss of a coin whether the concession seekers would be butchered in Lo’Ben’s kraal, John Minute escaped with the only available span of mules and left his comrades to their fate.
Yet he had big, generous traits, and could on occasions be a tender and a kindly friend. He had married when a young man, and had taken his wife into the wilds.
There was a story that she had met a handsome young trader and had eloped with him, that John Minute had chased them over three hundred miles of hostile country from Victoria Falls to Charter, from Charter to Marandalas, from Marandalas to Massikassi, and had arrived in Biera so close upon their trail that he had seen the ship which carried them to the Cape steaming down the river.
He had never married again. Report said that the woman had died of malaria. A more popular version of the story was that John Minute had relentlessly followed his erring wife to Pieter Maritzburg and had shot her and had thereupon served seven years on the breakwater for his sin.
About a man who is rich, powerful, and wholly unpopular, hated by the majority, and feared by all, legends grow as quickly as toadstools on a marshy moor. Some were half true, some wholly apocryphal, deliberate, and malicious inventions. True or false, John Minute ignored them all, denying nothing, explaining nothing, and even refusing to take action against a Cape Town weekly which dealt with his career in a spirit of unpardonable frankness.
There was only one person in the world whom he loved more than the girl whose hand he held as they went down to the cheeriest restaurant in London.
“I have had a queer interview,” he said in his gruff, quick way, “I have been to see the police.”
“Oh, uncle!” she said reproachfully.
He jerked his shoulder impatiently.
“My dear, you don’t know,” he said. “I have got all sorts of people who—”
He stopped short.
“What was there remarkable in the interview?” she asked, after he had ordered the lunch.
“Have you ever heard,” he asked, “of Saul Arthur Mann?”
“Saul Arthur Mann?” she repeated, “I seem to know that name. Mann, Mann! Where have I heard it?”
“Well,” said he, with that fierce and fleeting little smile which rarely lit his face for a second, “if you don’t know him he knows you; he knows everybody.”
“Oh, I remember! He is ‘The Man Who Knows!’ ”
It was his turn to be astonished.
“Where in the world have you heard of him?”
Briefly she retailed her experience, and when she came to describe the omniscient Mr. Mann—“A crank,” growled Mr. Minute. “I was hoping there was something in it.”
“Surely, uncle, there must be something in it,” said the girl seriously. “A man of the standing of the chief commissioner would not speak about him as Sir George did unless he had very excellent reason.”
“Tell me some more about what you saw,” he said. “I seem to remember the report of the inquest. The dead man was unknown and has not been identified.”
She described, as well as she could remember, her meeting with the knowledgable Mr. Mann. She had to be tactful
