with fire. A strong man at all times, and more than commonly
self-masterful, he felt himself now as helpless as a child. A
sudden pallor had whitened his face to the lips, there were strange
singings in his ears, and a mist before his eyes. It was she!
There was no possibility of any mistake. It was the girl for whose
picture he had gambled in the hut at Bekwando - Monty's baby-girl,
of whom he had babbled even in death. He leaned against a tree,
stricken dumb, and she was frightened. "You are ill," she cried.
"I'm so sorry. Let me run to the house and fetch some one!"

He had strength enough to stop her. A few deep breaths and he was
himself again, shaken and with a heart beating like a steam-engine,
but able at least to talk intelligently.

"I'm sorry - didn't mean to frighten you," he said. "It's the heat.
I get an attack like this sometimes. Yes, I'm Mr. Trent. I don't
know what you're doing here, but you're welcome."

"How nice of you to say so!" she answered brightly. "But then
perhaps you'll change your mind when you know what I have been
doing."

He laughed shortly.

"Nothing terrible, I should say. "Looks as though you've been
making a picture of my house; I don't mind that."

She dived in her pocket and produced a card-case.

"I'll make full confession," she said frankly. "I'm a journalist."