up his voluntary sacrifice,
ever with that unconquerable longing for one last glimpse of his own
country and his own people. I saw him, not many months ago, still there,
still with his eyes turned seawards and with the same wistful droop of
the head. Somehow I can't help thinking that that old man was also a
hero."

The tinkling of glasses and the sort murmuring of whispered conversation
had ceased during Francis' story. Every one was a little affected--the
soft throbbing of the violins upon the balcony was almost a relief. Then
there was a little murmur of sympathetic remarks--but amongst it all
Trent sat at the head of the table with white, set face but with red
fire before his eyes. This man had played him false. He dared not look
at Ernestine--only he knew that her eyes were wet with tears and that
her bosom was heaving.

The spirits of men and women who sup are mercurial things, and it was a
gay leave-taking half an hour or so later in the little Moorish room
at the head of the staircase. But Ernestine left her host without even
appearing to see his outstretched hand, and he let her go without a
word. Only when Francis would have followed her Trent laid a heavy hand
upon his shoulder.

"I must have a word with you, Francis," he said.

"I will come back," he said. "I must see Miss Wendermott into her
carriage."

But Trent's hand remained there, a grip of iron from which there was no
escaping. He said nothing, but Francis knew his man and had no idea of
making a scene. So he remained till the last had gone and a tall, black
servant had brought their coats from the cloak-room.

"You will come with me please," Trent said, "I have a few words to say
to you."

Francis shrugged his shoulders and obeyed.

CHAPTER XXXIX

Scarcely a word passed between the two men until they found themselves
in the smoking-room of Trent's house. A servant noiselessly arranged
decanters and cigars upon the sideboard, and, in response to an
impatient movement of Trent's, withdrew. Francis lit a cigarette. Trent,
contrary to his custom, did not smoke. He walked to the door and softly
locked it. Then he returned and stood looking down at his companion.

"Francis," he said, "you have been my enemy since the day I saw you
first in Bekwando village."

"Scarcely that," Francis objected. "I have distrusted you since then if
you like."

"Call it what you like," Trent answered. "Only to-night you have served
me a scurvy trick. Y