outskirts of the village.


Three days later two men were seated face to face in a long wooden
house, the largest and most important in Buckomari village.

Smoking a corn-cob pipe and showing in his face but few marks of
the terrible days through which he had passed was Scarlett Trent
- opposite to him was Hiram Da Souza, the capitalist of the region.
The Jew - of Da Souza's nationality it was impossible to have any
doubt - was coarse and large of his type, he wore soiled linen
clothes and was smoking a black cigar. On the little finger of each
hand, thickly encrusted with dirt, was a diamond ring, on his thick,
protruding lips a complacent smile. The concession, already soiled
and dog-eared, was spread out before them.

It was Da Souza who did most of the talking. Trent indeed had the
appearance of a man only indirectly interested in the proceedings.

"You see, my dear sir," Da Souza was saying, "this little concession
of yours is, after all, a very risky business. These niggers have
absolutely no sense honour. Do I not know it - alas - to my cost?"

Trent listened in contemptuous silence. Da Souza had made a fortune
trading fiery rum on the Congo and had probably done more to debauch
the niggers he spoke of so bitterly than any man in Africa.

"The Bekwando people have a bad name - very bad name. As for any
sense of commercial honour - my dear Trent, one might as well expect
diamonds to spring up like mushrooms under our feet."