A Millionaire of Yesterday. E. Phillips Oppenheim

amazement, half sorrowful, half reproachful, on the man's face was perfectly done. But Trent only snorted.

      “That piece of paper, as you call it, cost us the hard savings of years, it cost us weeks and months in the bush and amongst the swamps—it cost a man's life, not to mention the niggers we lost. Come, I'm not here to play skittles. Are you on for a deal or not? If you're doubtful about it I've another market. Say the word and we'll drink and part, but if you want to do business, here are my terms. Five thousand for a sixth share!”

      “Sixth share,” the Jew screamed, “sixth share?”

      Trent nodded.

      “The thing's worth a million at least,” he said. “A sixth share is a great fortune. Don't waste any time turning up the whites of your eyes at me. I've named my terms and I shan't budge from them. You can lay your bottom dollar on that.”

      Da Souza took up the document and glanced it through once more.

      “The concession,” he remarked, “is granted to Scarlett Trent and to one Monty jointly. Who is this Monty, and what has he to say to it?”

      Trent set his teeth hard, and he never blenched.

      “He was my partner, but he died in the swamps, poor chap. We had horrible weather coming back. It pretty near finished me.”

      Trent did not mention the fact that for four days and nights they were hiding in holes and up trees from the natives whom the King of Bekwando had sent after them, that their bearers had fled away, and that they had been compelled to leave the track and make their way through an unknown part of the bush.

      “But your partner's share,” the Jew asked. “What of that?”

      “It belongs to me,” Trent answered shortly. “We fixed it so before we started. We neither of us took much stock in our relations. If I had died, Monty would have taken the lot. It was a fair deal. You'll find it there!”

      The Jew nodded.

      “And your partner?” he said. “You saw him die! There is no doubt about that?”

      Trent nodded.

      “He is as dead,” he said, “as Julius Caesar.”

      “If I offered you—” Da Souza began.

      “If you offered me four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds,” Trent interrupted roughly, “I would tell you to go to glory.”

      Da Souza sighed. It was a hard man to deal with—this.

      “Very well,” he said, “if I give way, if I agree to your terms, you will be willing to make over this sixth share to me, both on your own account and on account of your late partner?”

      “You're right, mate,” Trent assented. “Plank down the brass, and it's a deal.”

      “I will give you four thousand pounds for a quarter share,” Da Souza said.

      Trent knocked the ashes from his pipe and stood up.

      “Here, don't waste any more of my time,” he said. “Stand out of the way, I'm off.”

      Da Souza kept his hands upon the concession.

      “My dear friend,” he said, “you are so violent. You are so abrupt. Now listen. I will give you five thousand for a quarter share. It is half my fortune.”

      “Give me the concession,” Trent said. “I'm off.”

      “For a fifth,” Da Souza cried.

      Trent moved to the door without speech. Da Souza groaned.

      “You will ruin me,” he said, “I know it. Come then, five thousand for a sixth share. It is throwing money away.”

      “If you think so, you'd better not part,” Trent said, still lingering in the doorway. “Just as you say. I don't care.”

      For a full minute Da Souza hesitated. He had an immense belief in the richness of the country set out in the concession; he knew probably more about it than Trent himself. But five thousand pounds was a great deal of money and there was always the chance that the Government might not back the concession holders in case of trouble. He hesitated so long that Trent was actually disappearing before he had made up his mind.

      “Come back, Mr. Trent,” he called out. “I have decided. I accept. I join with you.”

      Trent slowly returned. His manner showed no exultation.

      “You have the money here?” he asked.

      Da Souza laid down a heap of notes and gold upon the table. Trent counted them carefully and thrust them into his pocket. Then he took up a pen and wrote his name at the foot of the assignment which the Jew had prepared.

      “Have a drink?” he asked.

      Da Souza shook his head.

      “The less we drink in this country,” he said, “the better. I guess out here, spirits come next to poison. I'll smoke with you, if you have a cigar handy.”

      Trent drew a handful of cigars from his pocket. “They're beastly,” he said, “but it's a beastly country. I'll be glad to turn my back on it.”

      “There is a good deal,” Da Souza said, “which we must now talk about.”

      “To-morrow,” Trent said curtly. “No more now! I haven't got over my miserable journey yet. I'm going to try and get some sleep.”

      He swung out into the heavy darkness. The air was thick with unwholesome odours rising from the lake-like swamp beyond the drooping circle of trees. He walked a little way towards the sea, and sat down upon a log. A faint land-breeze was blowing, a melancholy soughing came from the edge of the forest only a few hundred yards back, sullen, black, impenetrable. He turned his face inland unwillingly, with a superstitious little thrill of fear. Was it a coyote calling, or had he indeed heard the moan of a dying man, somewhere back amongst that dark, gloomy jungle? He scoffed at himself! Was he becoming as a girl, weak and timid? Yet a moment later he closed his eyes, and pressed his hands tightly over his hot eyeballs. He was a man of little imaginative force, yet the white face of a dying man seemed suddenly to have floated up out of the darkness, to have come to him like a will-o'-the-wisp from the swamp, and the hollow, lifeless eyes seemed ever to be seeking his, mournful and eloquent with dull reproach. Trent rose to his feet with an oath and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was trembling, and he cursed himself heartily.

      “Another fool's hour like this,” he muttered, “and the fever will have me. Come out of the shadows, you white-faced, skulking reptile, you—bah! what a blithering fool I am! There is no one there! How could there be any one?”

      He listened intently. From afar off came the faint moaning of the wind in the forest and the night sounds of restless animals. Nearer there was no one—nothing stirred. He laughed out loud and moved away to spend his last night in his little wooden home. On the threshold he paused, and faced once more that black, mysterious line of forest.

      “Well, I've done with you now,” he cried, a note of coarse exultation in his tone. “I've gambled for my life and I've won. To-morrow I'll begin to spend the stakes.”

CHAPTER VII

       Table of Contents

      In a handsomely appointed room of one of the largest hotels in London a man was sitting at the head of a table strewn with blotting-paper and writing materials of every description. Half a dozen chairs had been carelessly pushed back, there were empty champagne bottles upon the sideboard, the air was faintly odorous of tobacco smoke—blue wreaths were still curling upwards towards the frescoed ceiling. Yet the gathering had not been