of
excessive haemorrhage."

III

THE TOMTOM CLUE

I had just settled down for a comfortable evening over the fire in a
saddle-bag chair drawn up as close to the hearth as the fender would
allow, with a plentiful supply of literature and whisky, and pipe and
tobacco, when the telephone bell rang loudly and insistently. With a
sigh I rose and took up the receiver.

"That you?" said a voice I recognised as that of Jack Bridges. "Can I
come round and see you at once? It's most important. No, I can't tell
you now. I'll be with you in a few minutes."

I hung the receiver up again, wondering what business could fetch Jack
Bridges round at that time of the evening to see me. We had been the
greatest of pals at school and at the 'Varsity, and had kept the
friendship up ever since, despite my intermittent wanderings over the
face of the globe. But during the last few days or so Jack had become
engaged to Miss Glanville, the daughter of old Glanville, of South
African fame, and as a love-sick swain I naturally expected to see very
little of him, until after the wedding at any rate.

At this time of the evening, according to my ideas of engaged couples,
he should be sitting in the stalls at some theatre, and not running
round to see bachelor friends with cynical views on matrimony.

I had not arrived at a satisfactory solution when the door opened and
Jack walked in. One glance at his face told me that he was in trouble,
and without a word I pushed him into my chair and handed him a drink.
Then I sat down on the opposite side of the fire and waited for him to
begin, for a man in need of sympathy does not want to be worried by
questions.

He gulped down half his whisky and sat for a moment gazing into the
fire.

"Jim, old man," he said at length, "I've had awful news."

"Not connected with Miss Glanville?" I asked.

"In a way, yes. It's broken off, but there's worse than that--far worse.
I can hardly realise it; I feel numbed at present; it's too horrible.
You remember that when you and I were at Winchester together my father
was killed during the Matabele War?"

I nodded.

"Well," continued Jack, "I heard to-day that he was not killed by the
Matabele, but was hanged in Bulawayo for murder. In other words, I am
the son of a murderer."

"Hanged for murder!" I exclaimed in horror. "Surely there's some
mistake?"

"No," groaned Jack, "it's true enough. I've seen the newspaper cutting
of the time, and I'm t