CHAPTER XIII

It has been a curious evening.

The only costume that fitted me in the barber’s emporium was that

of a Teddy Bear. I don’t mind playing bears with some nice young

girls on a winter’s evening in England—but it’s hardly an ideal

costume for the equator. However, I created a good deal of

merriment, and won first prize for “brought on board”—an absurd

term for a costume hired for the evening. Still as nobody seemed

to have the least idea whether they were made or brought, it didn’t

matter.

Mrs. Blair refused to dress up. Apparently she is at one with

Pagett on the matter. Colonel Race followed her example. Anne

Beddingfeld had concocted a gipsy costume for herself, and looked

extraordinarily well. Pagett said he had a headache and didn’t

appear. To replace him I asked a quaint little fellow called

Reeves. He’s a prominent member of the South African Labour party.

Horrible little man, but I want to keep in with him, as he gives

me information that I need. I want to understand this Rand business

from both sides.

Dancing was a hot affair. I danced twice with Anne Beddingfeld and

she had to pretend she liked it. I danced once with Mrs. Blair,

who didn’t trouble to pretend, and I victimized various other

damsels whose appearance struck me favourably.

Then we went down to supper. I had ordered champagne; the steward

suggested Clicquot 1911 as being the best they had on the boat and

I fell in with his suggestion. I seemed to have hit on the one

thing that would loosen Colonel Race’s tongue. Far from being

taciturn, the man became actually talkative. For a while this

amused me, then it occurred to me that Colonel Race, and not

myself, was becoming the life and soul of the party. He chaffed me

at length about keeping a diary.

“It will reveal all your indiscretions one of these days, Pedler.”

“My dear Race,” I said, “I venture to suggest that I am not quite

the fool you think me. I may commit indiscretions, but I don’t

write them down in black and white. After my death, my executors

will know my opinion of a great many people, but I doubt if they

will find anything to add or detract from their opinion of _me._

A diary is useful for recording the idiosyncrasies of other

people—but not one’s own.”

“There is such a thing as unconscious self-revelation, though.”

“In the eyes of the psycho-analyst, all things are vile,” I replied

sententiously.

“You must have had a very interesting life, Colonel Race?” said

Miss Beddingfeld, gazing at him with wide, starry eyes.

That’s how they do it, these girls! Othello charmed Desdemona by

telling her stories, but, oh, didn’t Desdemona charm Othello by

the way she listened?

Anyway, the girl set Race off all right. He began to tell lion

stories. A man who has shot lions in large quantities has an unfair

advantage over other men. It seemed to me that it was time I, too,

told a lion story. One of a more sprightly character.

“By the way,” I remarked, “that reminds me of a rather exciting

tale I heard. A friend of mine was out on a shooting trip somewhere

in East Africa. One night he came out of his tent for some reason,

and was startled by a low growl. He turned sharply and saw a lion

crouching to spring. He had left his rifle in the tent. Quick as

thought, he ducked, and the lion sprang right over his head.

Annoyed at having missed him, the animal growled and prepared to

spring again. Again he ducked, and again the lion sprang right over

him. This happened a third time, but by now he was close to the

entrance of the tent, and he darted in and seized his rifle. When

he emerged, rifle in hand, the lion had disappeared. That puzzled

him greatly. He crept round the back of the tent, where there was

a little clearing. There, sure enough, was the lion, busily

practising low jumps.”

This was received with a roar of applause. I drank some champagne.

“On another occasion,” I remarked, “this friend of mine had a

second curious experience. He was trekking across country, and

being anxious to arrive at his destination before the heat of the

day he ordered his boys to inspan whilst it was still dark. They

had some trouble in doing so, as the mules were very restive, but

at last they managed it, and a start was made. The mules raced

along like the wind, and when daylight came they saw why. In the

darkness, the boys had inspanned a lion as the near wheeler.”

This, too, was well received, a ripple of merriment going round

the table, but I am not sure that the greatest tribute did not come

from my friend, the Labour Member, who remained pale and serious.

“My God!” he said anxiously. “Who un’arnessed them?”

“I must go to Rhodesia,” said Mrs. Blair. “After what you have told

us, Colonel Race, I simply must. It’s a horrible journey though,

five days in the train.”

“You must join me on my private car,” I said gallantly. “Oh, Sir

Eustace, how sweet of you, do you really mean it?”

“Do I mean it!” I exclaimed reproachfully, and drank another glass

of champagne.

“Just about another week, and we shall be in South Africa,” sighed

Mrs. Blair.

“Ah, South Africa,” I said sentimentally, and began to quote from

a recent speech of mine at the Colonial Institute. “What has South

Africa to show the world? What indeed? Her fruit and her farms,

her wool and her wattles, her herds and her hides, her gold and

her diamonds——”

I was hurrying on, because I knew that as soon as I paused Reeves

would butt in and inform me that the hides were worthless because

the animals hung themselves up on barbed wire or something of that

sort, would crab everything else, and end up with the hardships of

the miners on the Rand. And I was not in the mood to be abused as

a Capitalist. However, the interruption came from another source

at the magic word diamonds.

“Diamonds!” said Mrs. Blair ecstatically.

“Diamonds!” breathed Miss Beddingfeld.

They both addressed Colonel Race.

“I suppose you’ve been to Kimberley?”

I had been to Kimberley too, but I didn’t manage to say so in time.

Race was being inundated with questions. What were mines like? Was

it true that the natives were kept shut up in compounds? And so

on.

Race answered their questions and showed a good knowledge of his

subject. He described the methods of housing the natives, the

searches instituted, and the various precautions that De Beers

took.

“Then it’s practically impossible to steal any diamonds?” asked

Mrs. Blair with as keen an air of disappointment as though she had

been journeying there for the express purpose.

“Nothing’s impossible, Mrs. Blair. Thefts do occur—like the case

I told you of where the Kafir hid the stone in his wound.”

“Yes, but on a large scale?”

“Once, in recent years. Just before the War in fact. You must

remember the case, Pedler. You were in South Africa at the time?”

I nodded.

“Tell us,” cried Miss Beddingfeld. “Oh, do tell us!”

Race smiled.

“Very well, you shall have the story. I suppose most of you have

heard of Sir Laurence Eardsley, the great South African mining

magnate? His mines were gold mines, but he comes into the story

through his son. You may remember that just before the War rumours

were afield of a new potential Kimberley hidden somewhere in the

rocky floor of the British Guiana jungles. Two young explorers, so

it was reported, had returned from that part of South America

bringing with them a remarkable collection of rough diamonds, some

of them of considerable size. Diamonds of small size had been found

before in the neighbourhood of the Essequibo and Mazaruni rivers,

but these two young men, John Eardsley and his friend Lucas,

claimed to have discovered beds of great carbon deposits at the

common head of two streams. The diamonds were of every colour,

pink, blue, yellow, green, black, and the purest white. Eardsley

and Lucas came to Kimberley where they were to submit their gems

to inspection. At the same time a sensational robbery was found to

have taken place at De Beers. When sending diamonds to England they

are made up into a packet. This remains in the big safe, of which

the two keys are held by two different men whilst a third man knows

the combination. They are handed to the Bank, and the Bank send

them to England. Each package is worth, roughly, about £100,000.

“On this occasion, the Bank were struck by something a little

unusual about the sealing of the packet. It was opened, and found

to contain knobs of sugar!

“Exactly how suspicion came to fasten on John Eardsley I do not

know. It was remembered that he had been very wild at Cambridge

and that his father had paid his debts more than once. Anyhow, it

soon got about that this story of South American diamond fields

was all a fantasy. John Eardsley was arrested. In his possession

was found a portion of the De Beer diamonds.

“But the case never came to court. Sir Laurence Eardsley paid over

a sum equal to the missing diamonds and De Beers did not prosecute.

Exactly how the robbery was committed has never been known. But

the knowledge that his son was a thief broke the old man’s heart.

He had a stroke shortly afterwards. As for John, his Fate was in

a way merciful. He enlisted, went to the War, fought there bravely,

and was killed, thus wiping out the stain on his name. Sir Laurence

himself had a third stroke and died about a month ago. He died

intestate and his vast fortune passed to his next of kin, a man

whom he hardly knew.”

The Colonel paused. A babel of ejaculations and questions broke

out. Something seemed to attract Miss Beddingfeld’s attention, and

she turned in her chair. At the little gasp she gave, I, too,

turned.

My new secretary, Rayburn, was standing in the doorway. Under his

tan, his face had the pallor of one who has seen a ghost. Evidently

Race’s story had moved him profoundly.

Suddenly conscious of our scrutiny, he turned abruptly and

disappeared.

“Do you know who that is?” asked Anne Beddingfeld abruptly.

“That’s my other secretary,” I explained. “Mr. Rayburn. He’s been

seedy up to now.”

She toyed with the bread by her plate.

“Has he been your secretary long?”

“Not very long,” I said cautiously.

But caution is useless with a woman, the more you hold back, the

more she presses forward. Anne Beddingfeld made no bones about it.

“How long?” she asked bluntly.

“Well—er—I engaged him just before I sailed. Old friend of mine

recommended him.”

She said nothing more, but relapsed into a thoughtful silence. I

turned to Race with the feeling that it was my turn to display an

interest in his story.

“Who is Sir Laurence’s next of kin, Race? Do you know?”

“I should say so,” he replied, with a smile. “I am!”