A Frontier Mystery. Mitford Bertram

put all the sincerity I could into my reassurances that no one would interfere with them, but apart from my own inclinations a certain anxious look on Aïda Sewin’s face as they waited for my answer decided me.

      “Why of course I will if it will be any help to you, Mrs Sewin,” I said, and then again a quick grateful look from the same quarter caused me to tread on air, as I went round to see to the saddling up of the horses – my own among them.

      As we took our way down the well worn bush path I could see that the incident of the morning had not been entirely cleared off from the minds of the party. The ladies were inclined to be nervous, and if a horse started and shied at a tortoise or a white snail shell beside the path I believe they more than half expected a crowd of revengeful savages to rush out and massacre them on the spot. However, of course, nothing happened, and we got to the Major’s farm by sundown.

      Then I had my reward.

      “Will you come and help me water some of the flowers, Mr Glanton?” said Miss Sewin, after we had offsaddled and generally settled ourselves. “No – don’t say you are going back. Mother is very nervous to-night, and I know you are going to add to your kindness to us by sleeping here.”

      Again I trod on air – and yet – and yet – I felt that I was acting like a fool. What on earth could come of it – at any rate to my advantage? Yet, again – why not?

      “I want you to promise me something, Mr Glanton, will you?” Miss Sewin said, when dusk and the lateness of the hour had put an end to what was to me one of the most delightful half hours I ever remember spending, for we had spent it alone, she chatting in that free and natural manner of hers, I agreeing with everything, as the entrancement of listening to her voice and watching her grace of movement wound itself more and more around me.

      “I think I may safely promise you anything, Miss Sewin,” I answered. “Well? What is it?”

      “I want you to promise me not to quarrel with my cousin – no matter how rude and provoking he may be.”

      “Is that all? Why of course I will.”

      “Ah but – you may not find it so easy,” she went on, speaking earnestly, and her wide open glance full on my face. “I have been noticing his behaviour towards you of late, and admiring your forbearance. But as a personal favour to myself, don’t quarrel with him.”

      “Oh, I still think that’ll be an easy promise to keep,” I said; and yet, the very fact that she was so anxious on the subject seemed to make the other way. Why was she?

      She shook her head slightly and smiled, as though reading my thoughts.

      “You see, we are all so friendly together, are we not?” she said. “And a man of your experience and good sense can afford to put up with a good deal from a mere boy who hasn’t much of either.”

      “Why of course,” I answered easily, and reassured by her tactful explanation. Yet – was Falkner such “a mere boy” after all?

      Chapter Nine.

      Hensley’s next-of-kin

      It is a strange, and I suppose a wholesomely-humiliating thing that we are appointed to go through life learning how little we know ourselves. Here was I, a man no longer young, with considerable experience of the ways of the world, rough and smooth, and under the fixed impression that if there was one man in the said wide and wicked world whom I knew thoroughly, in and out, from the crown of his hat to the soles of his boots – or velschoenen, as the case might be – that man was Godfrey Glanton, trader in the Zulu. And yet I had lived to learn that I didn’t know him at all.

      For instance the happy-go-lucky, free-and-easy, semi-lonely life that had satisfied me for so many years seemed no longer satisfying; yet why not, seeing that all its conditions prevailed as before? I had enough for my needs, and if I didn’t make a fortune out of my trade, whether stationary or from time to time peripatetic, I had always made a steady profit. Now, however, it came home to me that this was a state of things hardly the best for a man to live and die in.

      Again why not? I had seen contemporaries of my own – men circumstanced like myself who had come to the same conclusion. They had left it – only to come to grief in unfamiliar undertakings. Or they had married; only to find that they had better have elected to go through the rest of life with a chain and ball hung round their necks, than strapped to some nagging woman full of affectations and ailments – and raising a brood of progeny far more likely to prove a curse to them than anything else; thanks to the holy and gentle maternal influence aforesaid. All this I had seen, and yet, here I was, feeling restless and unsatisfied because for several days the recollection of a certain sweet and refined face, lit up by a pair of large, appealing eyes, had haunted my solitary hours.

      It was that time since I had seen my neighbours. I had heard of them through my usual sources of information, and they seemed to me to be getting along all right; wherefore I had forborne to pay another visit lest it might have the appearance of “hanging around.” And by way of combating an inclination to do so now, I made up my mind to carry out a deferred intention, viz., pay a visit to Hensley’s place.

      Tyingoza had been over to see me a couple of times, but made no allusion whatever to Falkner Sewin’s act of boyish idiocy: presumably rating it at its proper standard. But, I noticed that he wore a new head-ring. However, I hoped that was an incident forgotten; and as I heard nothing to the contrary, and my trade ran on as usual, I made no further reference to it either to Tyingoza or anybody else.

      I arrived at the scene of Hensley’s disappearance about mid-day. The homestead stood in a long, narrow valley, thickly bushed. Behind, and almost overhanging it, was a great krantz whose smooth ironstone wall glowed like a vast slab of red-hot metal. The place was wild and picturesque to a degree, but – oh so hot!

      Two men in shirts and trousers were playing quoits as I came up. I didn’t know either of them by sight.

      “Good day,” said one of them, knocking off his play, and coming up. “Off-saddle won’t you? Dashed hot, isn’t it?”

      “Thanks. I’m Glanton, from Isipanga,” I said in answer to his look of enquiry.

      “Oh. Glad to know you, Glanton. I’m Kendrew, from nowhere in particular, at least not just now, price of transport being too sleg for anything.”

      “Oh, you ride transport then? How many waggons?”

      “Three in good times – one in bad; none in worse – as in the present case. This is Sergeant Simcox, of the N.M.P.,” introducing the other man, whom I noticed wore uniform trousers and boots. “He’s been helping me to look for my poor old uncle, you know.”

      “Oh, Hensley was your uncle, was he?”

      “Rather. But I’m next-of-kin – so if he’s not found I take. See?” with a comprehensive wink and jerk of the head which took in the surroundings.

      I couldn’t help laughing at his coolness. He was a tall, rather good-looking young fellow, all wire and whipcord, with a chronically whimsical expression. The police sergeant was a hard bitten looking customer, typical of his line in life.

      “Now what do you think of the affair?” I said. “Did you know Hensley well?”

      “Hanged if I did. He didn’t like me. Did you?”

      “Not very. I used to ride over and look him up now and again. But I can’t imagine him doing anything mysterious. In fact I should say he’d be the last man in the world to do it.”

      “Ja. I don’t know what to think of it. I’ve been running the place since I heard of the affair – luckily I wasn’t on the road just then so was able to. You’ll stop and have some scoff of course – you too, sergeant?”

      “Wish I could,” said the latter, “but it’s against rules. Must get back to my camp.”

      “Hang rules. Who’s to know? Glanton here won’t split.”

      He was right, wherefore I forbear to say whether Sergeant Simcox made the third at that festive board or not.

      We