the candle. The Frenchman held Mills's hand a moment longer.

"I know you," he said. "You do' know me. I trust you, Jone. I know
yo' a good man."

He sat back again, and Mills turned matters over. In that rough
community no man would own himself devoid of gratitude. "I'll do as
much for you" was the common acknowledgment of a favor. It appeared
to Mills that his new acquaintance might be a precious scoundrel, but
that point was not at present in issue, and there remained a debt to
be satisfied before he could raise it. The knowledge that Frenchy had
shot a man did not trouble him in the least, so long as the
accompanying circumstances and the motive were in accordance with the
simple standards of Manicaland. Here came in the doubt, engendered by
nothing more concrete or citable than a trifle of mystery in the
man's manner, and some undefined quality that disagreed with the
trader. He glanced over to him; the Frenchman was blowing rings of
smoke and smiling at them. There was nothing in his face but innocent
and boyish amusement.

"Gad, you're a cool hand!" exclaimed Mills. "How d'you reckon we
better work it?"

"I do' know," replied the other indifferently.

"You don't, eh? Well, d'you think they'll follow you all night?"

"I don' think," said the Frenchman, with confidence and a swelling of
his chest--"I don' think they wan' to meet me in the night. Not ver'
naice eh? Leetle dangerous."