the blue-eyed girls. "Pity he wasn't staying a day or two. We might
have got him out to the house and seen what he was made of."

"Watch it," repeated George sententiously. "Watch it, Lilith."

Meanwhile, the object of this discussion--and warning--having resignedly
"passed" the Customs at the dock gates, was spinning townwards in one of
the innumerable hansoms. Sizing up the South African metropolis, it gave
him the idea of a mud city, just dumped down wet and left to dry in the
sun. Its general aspect suggested the vagaries of some sportive Titan,
who, from the summit of the lofty rock wall behind it, had amused
himself, out of office hours, by chucking down chunks of clay of all
sorts and sizes, trying how near he could "lob" them into the position
of streets and squares.

At that time the railway line ended at Kimberley--the distance thence to
Johannesburg, close upon three hundred miles, had to be done by stage.
It occurred to Laurence that, having a couple of hours to spare, he had
better look up the coach-agent and secure a seat by wire.

The agent was not in his office. Laurence Stanninghame, however, who
knew the ways of similar countries, albeit a new arrival in this,
inquired for that functionary's favourite bar. The reply was prompt and
accurate withal. In a few minutes, seated on stools facing each other,
he and the object of his search were transacting business.

The latter did not seem entirely satisfactory. The agent could not say
when the earliest chance might occur by regular coach. He might have to
wait at Kimberley--well, it might be for days, or it might be for ever.
On the other hand, he might not even have to wait at all. He could not
tell. Even the people at the other end could not say for certain.
Laurence began to lose patience.

"See here," he said somewhat testily. "I haven't been long in your
country, but that's about the only reply I've been able to meet with to
any question yet. Tell me, as a matter of curiosity, is there any one
thing you are ever certain of out here? Just one."

The agent looked at him with faint amazement.

"There is one," he said; "just one."

"Well--and that?"

"Death. That's always a dead cert. Let's liquor. Put a name to it,
skipper."

The special train consisted of a mail van and a first-class carriage.
There being only three or four other travellers each had a compartment
to himself, an arrangement which met with Laurence Stanninghame's
unfeigned