e smile with which
he welcomed his visitor. The light of battle was in his small, keen
eyes, in his cringing bow, his mock humility.

"I am most honoured, Mr. Trent, sir," he declared. "Welcome back to
England. When did you return?"

"Yesterday," Trent said shortly.

"And you have come," Da Souza continued, "fresh from the triumphs of the
race-course. It is so, I trust?"

"I have come straight from Ascot," Trent replied, "but my horse was
beaten if that is what you mean. I did not come here to talk about
racing though. I want a word with you in private."

"With much pleasure, sir," Da Souza answered, throwing open with a
little flourish the door of his sanctum. "Will you step in? This way!
The chair is dusty. Permit me!"

Trent threw a swift glance around the room in which he found himself. It
was barely furnished, and a window, thick with dust, looked out on
the dingy back-wall of a bank or some public building. The floor was
uncovered, the walls were hung with yellow maps of gold-mines all in
the West African district. Da Souza himself, spick and span, with glossy
boots and a flower in his buttonhole, was certainly the least shabby
thing in the room.

"You know very well," Trent said, "what I have come about. Of course
you'll pretend you don't, so to save time I'll tell you. What have you
done with Monty?"

Da Souza spread outwards the palms of his hands. He spoke with
well-affected impatience.

"Monty! always Monty! What do I want with him? It is you who should look
after him, not I."

Trent turned quietly round and locked the door. Da Souza would have
called out, but a paroxysm of fear had seized him. His fat, white face
was pallid, and his knees were shaking. Trent's hand fell upon his
shoulder, and Da Souza felt as though the claws of a trap had gripped
him.

"If you call out I'll throttle you," Trent said. "Now listen. Francis is
in England and, unless Monty is produced, will tell the whole story. I
shall do the best I can for all of us, but I'm not going to have Monty
done to death. Come, let's have the truth."

Da Souza was grey now with a fear greater even than a physical one. He
had been so near wealth. Was he to lose everything?

"Mr. Trent," he whispered, "my dear friend, have reason. Monty, I tell
you, is only half alive, he hangs on, but it is a mere thread of life.
Leave it all to me! To-morrow he shall be dead!--oh, quite naturally.
There shall be no risk! Trent, Trent!"

His cry end