He rubbed his slim brown hands together, and looked across at his companion with a smile wherein the youthful self-confidence was less discernible than of yore. The smile faded as he looked at Oscard. He was thinking that he looked older and graver--more of a middle-aged man who has left something behind him in life--and the sight reminded him of the few grey hairs that were above his own temples.
“Come,” he said more cheerfully, “tell me your news. Let us change the subject. Let us throw aside light dalliance and return to questions of money. More important--much more satisfactory. I suppose you have left Durnovo in charge? Has Joseph come home with you?”
“Yes, Joseph has come home with me. Durnovo is dead.”
“He died at Msala of the sleeping sickness. He was a bigger blackguard than we thought. He was a slave-dealer and a slave-owner. Those forty men we picked up at Msala were slaves belonging to him.”
“Ach!” It was a strange exclamation, as if he had burnt his fingers. “Who knows of this?” he asked immediately. The expediency of the moment had presented itself to his mind again.
“Only ourselves,” returned Oscard. “You, Joseph, and I.”
“That is all right, and the sooner we forget that the better. It would be a dangerous story to tell.”
“So I concluded,” said Oscard, in his slow, thoughtful way. “Joseph swears he won't breathe a word of it.”
Jack Meredith nodded. He looked rather pale beneath the light of the gas.
“It was Joseph who found it out,” continued Oscard, “up at the Plateau. I paraded the whole crowd, told them what I had found out, and chucked up the whole concern in your name and mine. Next morning I abandoned the Plateau with such men as cared to come. Nearly half of them stayed with Durnovo. I thought it was in order that they might share in the Simiacine--I told them they could have the whole confounded lot of the stuff. But it was not that; they tricked Durnovo there. They wanted to get him to themselves. In going down the river we had an accident with two of the boats, which necessitated staying at Msala. While we were waiting there, one night after ten o'clock the poor devil came, alone, in a canoe. They had simply cut him in slices--a most beastly sight. I wake up sometimes even now dreaming of it, and I am not a fanciful sort of fellow. Joseph went into his room and was simply sick; I didn't know that you could be made sick by anything you saw. The sleeping sickness was on Durnovo then; he had brought it with him from the Plateau. He died before morning.”
