The White Hand and the Black. Mitford Bertram

emerging from behind the Court house. He was a native detective attached to the magistracy. Saluting, he stood and awaited orders.

      Then those three—the two white men seated on the steps of the stoep—held a quarter of an hour’s conference, speaking rapidly, and in the vernacular. Teliso thought he knew the stranger. His name? No, that he could not say—as a matter of fact he knew it perfectly. He might be able to find it out—given every facility. Was he from beyond the border, and if so who was his chief? Of this too, Teliso professed ignorance, though he could find out, given time and every facility. Here likewise, he was in a position to give perfectly correct answers then and there, but Teliso was in his humble way a Government official, and thoroughly understood the art of “magnifying his office.” He was not going to adopt any such undignified course of procedure as to give a direct answer. He looked forward to being sent on a secret mission, with many days of pleasant sojourn among the kraals of his countrymen, well regaled with plenty of beef and beer, and—other things. So he reiterated his ability to find out all about the stranger if entrusted with that delicate errand. At that, for the time, he was dismissed.

      “What sort of chap’s that, Elvesdon?” said Thornhill re-lighting his pipe.

      “Haven’t tried him yet. Why?”

      “You may have to ‘try’ him yet, in another sense,” returned Thornhill, drily, shading the third match with his hand. “Look here. I don’t want to seem to run your show for you, but I’ve been here a goodish while, and I hear things. If you’ll take a tip from me—you’re not obliged to, you know—you won’t trust everything to Teliso. Don’t mind my saying that?”

      “Certainly not. In fact, I’m obliged to you. To my mind if there’s anything idiotic in the world it’s making light of the experience of men of experience.”

      “Well, you can always command mine—on the quiet of course—and I shan’t be in the least put out if you don’t agree with it. Now I can see you’re longing to get back to your job, so I’ll saddle up.”

      “Er—the fact is, I’ve got a lot of these tin-pot cases to worry through—so I’ll get you to excuse me. By the way, Thornhill, I’m going to take you at your word, and invade you on Sunday. I’m beastly all-by-myself here when there’s no work. How does that pan out?”

      “Any number of ounces to the ton. Come as early as you like, and, there’s a bed for you, if you don’t want to get back here till next morning. Good Lord, Elvesdon, when I think of—”

      “But, don’t ‘think of’,” interrupted the other, hurriedly. “Very well. So long—till Sunday.”

      Thornhill’s horse had been brought round, and as he got into the saddle Elvesdon turned away to the Court house. And the latter as he got there, felt as if he was treading on air. Yet why should he—why the devil should he?—he kept unconsciously asking himself.

      Thornhill, passing the clerk’s quarters, saw the latter just coming out.

      “Hallo, Prior!” he hailed. “Good-bye, I’m off.”

      The young man came over to him.

      “Good-bye, Mr. Thornhill,” he said. “You don’t often look us up in these days.”

      “You don’t often look me up, Prior, for the matter of that.”

      “Oh well, Mr. Thornhill,” said the other shamefacedly. “I should like to, you know. Er—may I come and try for a bushbuck someday?”

      “Why of course you may, man, any mortal time you feel inclined, or can. By the way, how do you like your new chief?”

      “No end. He’s—er—he’s such a gentleman.”

      There was a world of admiration—of hero worship in the young man’s tone, and colonial youth is by no means prone to such.

      “Ah,” replied Thornhill. “Well, I agree with you, Prior. Good-bye.”