The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

of Contents

      Cynthia Sutton was twentythree, and, by all standards, beautiful. Her hair was a rich chestnut, her eyes were big, and of that shade which is either blue or grey, according to the light in which they were seen. Her nose was straight, her upper lip short; her lips full and red, her skin soft and unblemished. “She has the figure of a woman, and the eyes of a child,” said Amber describing her “ and she asked me to come to tea.”

      “And you didn’t go,” said Peter, nodding his head approvingly. “You realized that your presence might compromise this innercent flower. ‘No,’ you sez to yourself, ‘no, I will go away, carrying a fragrant memory, an’—’”

      “To be exact, my Peter,” said Amber, “I forgot all about the appointment in the hurry and bustle of keeping out of Lambaire’s way.”

      They were sitting in the little room under the roof of 19, Redcow Court, and the sweet song of the caged birds filled the apartment with liquid melody.

      “No,” continued Amber thoughtfully, “I must confess to you, my Peter, that I had none of those interestin’ conversations with myself that your romantic soul suggests.”

      He looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock in the forenoon, and he stared through the open window, his mind intent upon a problem.

      “I ought to see her,” he said, half to himself; he was groping for excuses. “This business of young Sutton’s… compass and chart… hidden treasures and all that sort of thing, eh, my Peter?”

      Peter’s eyes were gleaming from behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, and his hand shook with excitement, as he rose and made his way to the cretonne-curtained shelves.

      “I’ve got a yarn here,” he said, fumbling eagerly amongst his literary treasures, “that will give you some ideas: money and pieces of eight — what is a piece of eight?” He turned abruptly with the question.

      “A sovereign,” said Amber promptly, “eight half-crowns.” He was in the mood when he said just the first thing that came into his head.

      “Um!” Peter resumed his search, and Amber watched him with the gentle amusement that one reserves for the enthusiasm of children at play.

      “Here it is,” said Peter.

      He drew forth from a pile of books one, gaudy of colour and reckless of design. “This is the thing,” — he dusted the paper cover tenderly—” ‘Black Eyed Nick, or the Desperado’s Dream of Ducats’; how’s that?”

      Amber took the book from the old man and inspected it, letting the pages run through his fingers rapidly.

      “Fine,” he said, with conviction. “Put it with my pyjamas, I’ll read myself to sleep with it “ — he spoke a little absently, for his mind was elsewhere.

      It was a relief to him when Peter left him to “shop.” Shopping was the one joy of Peter’s life, and usually entailed a very careful rehearsal.

      “A penn’oth of canary seed, a quarter of tea, two of sugar, four bundles of wood, a pint of paraffin, tell the greengrocer to send me half a hundred of coal, eggs, bit of bacon — you didn’t like the bacon this morning, did you, Amber? — some kippers, a chop — how will a chop suit you? — and a pound of new potatoes; I think that’s all.”

      Leaning out of the window, Amber saw him disappearing up the court, his big rush bag gripped tightly in his hand, his aged top-hat tilted to the back of his head.

      Amber waited until he was out of sight, then made his way to his bedroom and commenced to change his clothes.

      A quarter of an hour later he was on his way to Warwick Gardens.

      The maid who answered his knock told him that her mistress was engaged, but showed him into a little study.

      “Take her a note,” said Amber, and scribbled a message in his pocket book, tearing out the leaf.

      When the twisted slip of paper came to her, Cynthia was engaged in a fruitless and so far as Lambaire was concerned, a profitless discussion on her brother’s projected expedition. She opened the note and coloured. “Yes,” she said with a nod to the maid, and crumpled the note in her hand.

      “I hardly think it is worth while continuing this discussion,” she said; “it is not a question of my approval or disapproval: if my brother elects to take the risk, he will go whatever my opinions are on the subject.”

      “But, my dear young lady,” said Lambaire eagerly, “you are wrong; it isn’t only the chart which you have placed at our disposal—”

      “At my brother’s,” she corrected.

      “It isn’t only that,” he went on, “it’s the knowledge that you are in sympathy with our great project: it means a lot to us, ye know, Miss Cynthia—”

      “Miss Sutton,” she corrected again.

      “It means more than you can imagine; I’ve made a clean breast of my position. On the strength of your father’s statement about this mine, I floated a company; I spent a lot of money on the expedition. I sent him out to Africa with one of the best caravans that have been got together — and now the shareholders are bothering me. ‘Where’s that mine of yours?’ they say. Why “ — his voice sank to an impressive whisper—” they talk of prosecuting me, don’t they, Whitey?”

      “They do indeed,” said his responsive companion truthfully.

      “So it was a case of fair means or foul,” he went on. “I had to get the plan, and you wouldn’t give it me. I couldn’t burgle your house for it, could I?”

      He smiled pleasantly at the absurdity of taking such a course, and she looked at him curiously.

      “It is strange that you should say that,” she replied slowly, “for remarkably enough this house was burgled twice after my refusal to part with the little map.”

      “Remarkable!” said Lambaire.

      “Astoundin’!” said Whitey, no less surprised.

      She rose from her chair.

      “Since the matter has been settled — so far as I have anything to do with it,” she said, “you will excuse my presence.”

      She left the room, and Amber, sitting in the little study, heard the swish of her skirts and rose to meet her.

      There was a touch of pink in her cheeks, but she was very grave and self-possessed, as she favoured him with the slightest of bows and motioned him to a seat.

      “Good of you to see me, Miss Sutton,” said Amber.

      She noted, with a little pang, that he was quite at ease. There could be little hope for a man who was so lost to shame that he gloried in his misspent career rather than showed some indication of embarrassment in the presence of a woman who knew him for what he was.

      “I felt I owed you this interview at least,” she replied steadily. “I wish—” She stopped.

      “Yes?” Amber perked his head on one side inquiringly, “You were going to say that you wished — ?”

      “It does not matter,” she said. She felt herself blushing.

      “You wish you could do something for me,” he said with a half-smile, “but, my lady, half the good people in the world are trying to do something for me. I am hopeless, I am incorrigible; regard me as that.”

      Nevertheless, lightly as he discussed the question of his regeneration, he eyed her keenly to see how she would take the rejection of help. To his relief, and somewhat to his annoyance also, be it admitted, he observed she accepted his valuation of himself very readily.

      “I have come to see you to-day,” he went on, “in relation to a matter which