was born to Africa. Indeed, often and often have I wished to be back
there again, out on the veld, far away from the London streets and fog.
I am young and strong, and I want to see things, natural things--not
those made by man, you know--the things I remember as a child. One can
always go back to London."

"Yes, or at least some people can. It is a curious thing, Miss Clifford,
but as it happens I have met your father. You always reminded me of the
man, but I had forgotten his name. Now it comes back to me; it _was_
Clifford."

"Where on earth?" she asked, astonished.

"In a queer place. As I told you, I have visited South Africa before,
under different circumstances. Four years ago I was out here big-game
shooting. Going in from the East coast my brother and I--he is dead now,
poor fellow--got up somewhere in the Matabele country, on the banks of
the Zambesi. As we didn't find much game there we were going to strike
south, when some natives told us of a wonderful ruin that stood on
a hill overhanging the river a few miles farther on. So, leaving the
waggon on the hither side of the steep nek, over which it would have
been difficult to drag it, my brother and I took our rifles and a bag
of food and started. The place was farther off than we thought, although
from the top of the nek we could see it clearly enough, and before we
reached it dark had fallen.

"Now we had observed a waggon and a tent outside the wall which we
thought must belong to white men, and headed for them. There was a light
in the tent, and the flap was open, the night being very hot. Inside
two men were seated, one old, with a grey beard, and the other, a