The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

      “Ahem!” coughed Whitey, and Lambaire realized that he had made a mistake.

      “So far from being well off — however, that is unimportant; it was only last year that, by the death of an uncle, we inherited — but rich or poor, that is beside the question.”

      “It is indeed,” said Lambaire heartily. He was anxious to get away from ground that was palpably dangerous. “I want to finish what I had to say. Your sister refused us the chart; well and good, we do not quarrel with her, we do not wish to take the matter to law; we say ‘very good — we will leave the matter,’ although,” he wagged his finger at the boy solemnly, “although it is a very serious matter for me, having floated—”

      “Owing to your wishing to float,” said Whitey softly.

      “I should say wishing to float a company on the strength of the chart; still, I say, ‘if the young lady feels that way, I’m sorry — I won’t bother her’; then an idea struck me!” He paused dramatically. “An idea struck me — the mine which your father went to seek is still undiscovered; even with your chart, to which, by the way, I do not attach a great deal of importance—”

      “It is practically of no value except to the owner,” interrupted Whitey.

      “No value whatever,” agreed Lambaire; “even with the chart, any man who started out to hunt for my mine would miss it — what is required is — is—”

      “The exploring spirit,” Whitey put in. “The exploring spirit, born and bred in the bones of the man who goes out to find it. Mr. Sutton,” Lambaire rose awkwardly, for he was heavily built, “when I said I sought you from ulterior motives, I spoke the truth. I was trying to discover whether you were the man to carry on your father’s work — Mr. Sutton, you are !”

      He said this impressively, dramatically, and the boy flushed with pleasure.

      He would have been less than human if the prospect of such an expedition as Lambaire’s words suggested did not appeal to him. Physically and mentally he bore no resemblance to Sutton the explorer, the man of many expeditions, but there was something of his father’s intense curiosity in his composition, a curiosity which lies at the root of all enterprise.

      In that moment all the warnings of his sister were unheeded, forgotten. The picture of the man she had drawn faded from his mind, and all he saw in Lambaire was a benefactor, a patron, and a large-minded man of business. He saw things more clearly (so he told himself) without prejudice (so he could tell his sister); these things had to be looked at evenly, calmly. The past, with the privations, which, thanks to his sister’s almost motherly care and self-sacrifice, he had not known or felt, was dead.

      “I — I hardly know what to say,” he stammered; “of course I should like to carry on my father’s work most awfully — I’ve always been very keen on that sort of thing, exploring and all that….”

      He was breathless at the prospect which had unexpectedly been opened up to him. When Lambaire extended a large white hand, he grasped and shook it gratefully — he, who had come firm in the resolve to finally end the acquaintance.

      “He’s butter,” said Whitey afterwards, “keep him away from the Ice and he’s Dead Easy. It’s the Ice that’s the difficulty.

      He shook his head doubtfully.

V. Amber Admits His Guilt

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      And there was an end to it.

      So Francis Sutton informed his sister with tremendous calm.

      She stood by the window, drawing patterns with the tips of her fingers on the polished surface of a small table, and her eyes were fixed on the street without.

      Francis had been illogical and unnecessarily loud in his argument, and she had been beaten down by the erratic and tumbling waves of his eloquence. So she remained quiet, and when he had finished talking for the fifth time, he resentfully remarked upon her sulky silence.

      “You haven’t given me a chance of speaking, Francis, and I am absolutely bewildered by your change of attitude—”

      “Look here, Cynthia,” he broke in impatiently, “it’s no good your opening up this wretched subject again — Lambaire is a man of the world, we can’t judge him by convent codes, or by schoolgirl codes; if you argue the matter from now until quarter-day you won’t budge me. I’m going through with this. It’s a chance that will never come again. I’m sure father would have liked it.”

      He paused expectantly, but she did not accept the lull as an opportunity.

      “Now, for goodness sake, Cynthia, do not, I beg of you, sulk.”

      She turned from her contemplation of the outside world.

      “Do you remember how you came home the other night?” she asked suddenly, and the boy’s face went red.

      “I don’t think that’s fair,” he said hotly, “a man may make a fool of himself—”

      “I wasn’t going to speak of that,” she said, “but I want to remind you that a gentleman brought you home — he knew Lambaire better than you or I know him — yes? — you were going to say something?”

      “Go on,” said the youth, a note of triumph in his voice, “I have something to say upon that subject.”

      “He said that Lambaire was something worse than a man about town — that he was a criminal, one of the cleverest of criminals, a man without scruple or pity.”

      There was a smile on Sutton’s face when she finished.

      “And do you know who this gentleman was?” he asked in glee. “He’s Amber — you’ve never heard of Amber?”

      She shook her head.

      “He’s a thief, just a low-down thief — you can jolly well shake your head, Cynthia, but he’s a fellow who gets his living by his wits; he’s been out of gaol exactly a week — that is your Mr. Amber.”

      “Mr. Amber,” repeated a voice at the door, as a maid admitted the imperturbable subject of the conversation.

      Amber was in the conventional garb of civilization. His tightly-buttoned morning coat was of the newest cut, his linen was of the shiniest. The hat which he held in his hand shone as only a new silk hat can shine, and spotless white was alike the colour of the spats over his varnished shoes and the skin-tight gloves on his hands.

      He might have stepped out of a fashion plate, so immaculate was he.

      He smiled cheerfully at the uncomfortable youth and held out his hand to the girl.

      “Called in,” he said easily, “passin’ this way: motor ‘buses pass the door — very convenient; what I like about London is the accessibility of everywhere to everywhere else — may I put my hat down? — thank you so much. If ever I make a lot of money I shall live in Park Lane; it’s so close to the tube. And how are you?”

      Sutton muttered an ungracious platitude and made for the door.

      “One moment, Francis,” the girl had gone red and white by turn, and the hand that traced patterns on the table had trembled a little when Amber came in: now she was very self-possessed, albeit paler than usual. The boy stopped, one hand on the handle of the door, and frowned warningly at his sister.

      “Mr. Amber,” she said, ignoring the signal, “I think it is only fair to you to repeat something I have just heard.”

      “I beg of you, Cynthia!” said Sutton angrily.

      “It has been said, Mr. Amber,” she continued, “that you are — are a bad character.”

      “My