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"Rolls, taking back the photograph as clandestinely as he had handed it, said: 'That's Douglas Macray—that's the gentleman. Never saw him in the flesh myself: but that's he.'

"'Well, what about him?' I asked. 'Why are you and he bad friends?'

"'Because'—he tossed down his 'long Tom' with emphasis—'I refuse to be bribed by his dirty hand; and because he drops to it why I am in England, and wants to bottle me up.'

"'Why are you in England?'

"'Mainly to get you.'

"'How do you mean "get" me, Rolls,' I demanded.

"'Get you out yonder,—he nodded away toward one of the continents.

"'Get me to go to Africa?' I asked.

"'That's about it.'

"'You won't do that, Rolls,' I told him.

"On which he muttered, with his eyes cast down: 'Leave it at that for the present. Maybe when I see my way to put my cards down, you won't be off it. A Red Kaffir inyanga—that's a doctoress—predicted that what I am now on would come off all right, though I might die in the attempt, said she. Well, you don't believe in inyangas, and yet I could tell you a tale or two——'