y
in his rightful position, and making over to him his share in the
Bekwando Syndicate. But to arrange this without catastrophe would need
skill and tact; interference from any outside source would be fatal,
and Francis meant to interfere--nothing would stop him. Trent walked
backwards and forwards with knitted brows, glancing every now and then
at the unconscious man. Francis would certainly interfere if he were
allowed to recover!

CHAPTER XXVII

A fortnight afterwards Trent rode into Attra, pale, gaunt, and
hollow-eyed. The whole history of those days would never be known by
another man! Upon Trent they had left their mark for ever. Every hour of
his time in this country he reckoned of great value--yet he had devoted
fourteen days to saving the life of John Francis. Such days too--and
such nights! They had carried him sometimes in a dead stupor, sometimes
a raving madman, along a wild bush-track across rivers and swamps
into the town of Garba, where years ago a Congo trader, who had made a
fortune, had built a little white-washed hospital! He was safe now, but
surely never a man before had walked so near the "Valley of the Shadow
of Death." A single moment's vigilance relaxed, a blanket displaced,
a dose of brandy forgotten, and Trent might have walked this life a
multi-millionaire, a peer, a little god amongst his fellows, freed for
ever from all anxiety. But Francis was tended as never a man was tended
before. Trent himself had done his share of the carrying, ever keeping
his eyes fixed upon the death-lit face of their burden, every ready to
fight off the progress of the fever and ague, as the twitching lips or
shivering limbs gave warning of a change. For fourteen days he had not
slept; until they had reached Garba his clothes had never been changed
since they had started upon their perilous journey. As he rode into
Attra he reeled a little in his saddle, and he walked into the office of
the Agent more like a ghost than a man.

Two men, Cathcart and his assistant, who was only a boy, were lounging
in low chairs. As he entered they looked up, exchanging quick, startled
glances. Then Cathcart gave vent to a little exclamation.

"Great Heavens, Trent, what have you been doing?" Trent sank into a
chair. "Get me some wine," he said. "I am all right but over-tired."

Cathcart poured champagne into a tumbler. Trent emptied it at a gulp
and asked for biscuits. The man's recuperative powers were wonderful.
Alre