CHAPTER XVIII

_(Anne’s Narrative Resumed)_

I don’t suppose that as long as I live I shall forget my first

sight of Table Mountain. I got up frightfully early and went out

on deck. I went right up to the boat deck, which I believe is a

heinous offence, but I decided to dare something in the cause of

solitude. We were just steaming into Table Bay. There were fleecy

white clouds hovering above Table Mountain, and nestling on the

slopes below, right down to the sea, was the sleeping town, gilded

and bewitched by the morning sunlight.

It made me catch my breath and have that curious hungry pain inside

that seizes one sometimes when one comes across something that’s

extra beautiful. I’m not very good at expressing these things, but

I knew well enough that I had found, if only for a fleeting moment,

the thing that I had been looking for ever since I left Little

Hampsly. Something new, something hitherto undreamed of, something

that satisfied my aching hunger for romance.

Perfectly silently, or so it seemed to me, the _Kilmorden_ glided

nearer and nearer. It was still very like a dream. Like all

dreamers, however, I could not let my dream alone. We poor humans

are so anxious not to miss anything.

“This is South Africa,” I kept saying to myself industriously,

“South Africa, South Africa. You are seeing the world. This is the

world. You are seeing it. Think of it, Anne Beddingfeld, you

pudding-head. You’re seeing the world.”

I had thought that I had the boat deck to myself, but now I observed

another figure leaning over the rail, absorbed as I had been in

the rapidly approaching city. Even before he turned his head I knew

who it was. The scene of last night seemed unreal and melodramatic

in the peaceful morning sunlight. What must he have thought of me?

It made me hot to realize the things that I had said. And I hadn’t

meant them—or had I?

I turned my head resolutely away and stared hard at Table Mountain.

If Rayburn had come up here to be alone, I, at least, need not

disturb him by advertising my presence.

But to my intense surprise I heard a light footfall on the deck

behind me, and then his voice, pleasant and normal:

“Miss Beddingfeld.”

“Yes?”

I turned.

“I want to apologize to you. I behaved like a perfect boor last

night.”

“It—it was a peculiar night,” I said hastily.

It was not a very lucid remark, but it was absolutely the only

thing I could think of.

“Will you forgive me?”

I held out my hand without a word. He took it.

“There’s something else I want to say.” His gravity deepened. “Miss

Beddingfeld, you may not know it, but you are mixed up in a rather

dangerous business.”

“I gathered as much,” I said.

“No, you don’t. You can’t possibly know. I want to warn you. Leave

the whole thing alone. It can’t concern you really. Don’t let your

curiosity lead you to tamper with other people’s business. No,

please don’t get angry again. I’m not speaking of myself. You’ve

no idea of what you might come up against—these men will stop at

nothing. They are absolutely ruthless. Already you’re in danger—look

at last night. They fancy you know something. Your only chance is

to persuade them that they’re mistaken. But be careful, always be

on the look out for danger, and, look here, if at any time you

should fall into their hands, don’t try and be clever—tell the

whole truth, it will be your only chance.”

“You make my flesh creep, Mr. Rayburn,” I said, with some truth.

“Why do you take the trouble to warn me?”

He did not answer for some minutes, then he said in a low voice:

“It may be the last thing I can do for you. Once on shore I shall

be all right—but I may not get on shore.”

“What?” I cried.

“You see, I’m afraid you’re not the only person on board who knows

that I am ‘The Man in the Brown Suit.’”

“If you think that I told——” I said hotly.

He reassured me with a smile.

“I don’t doubt you, Miss Beddingfeld. If I ever said I did, I lied.

No, but there’s one person on board who’s known all along. He’s

only got to speak—and my number’s up. All the same, I’m taking a

sporting chance that he won’t speak.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a man who likes playing a lone hand. And when the

police have got me I should be of no further use to him. Free, I

might be! Well, an hour will show.”

He laughed rather mockingly, but I saw his face harden. If he had

gambled with Fate, he was a good gambler. He could lose and smile.

“In any case,” he said lightly, “I don’t suppose we shall meet

again.”

“No,” I said slowly. “I suppose not.”

“So—good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

He gripped my hand hard, just for a minute his curious light eyes

seemed to burn into mine, then he turned abruptly and left me. I

heard his footsteps ringing along the deck. They echoed and

re-echoed. I felt that I should hear them always. Footsteps—going

out of my life.

I can admit frankly that I did not enjoy the next two hours. Not

till I stood on the wharf, having finished with most of the

ridiculous formalities that bureaucracies require, did I breathe

freely once more. No arrest had been made, and I realized that it

was a heavenly day, and that I was extremely hungry. I joined

Suzanne. In any case, I was staying the night with her at the

hotel. The boat did not go on to Port Elizabeth and Durban until

the following morning. We got into a taxi and drove to the Mount

Nelson.

It was all heavenly. The sun, the air, the flowers! When I thought

of Little Hampsly in January, the mud knee-deep, and the

sure-to-be-falling rain, I hugged myself with delight. Suzanne was

not nearly so enthusiastic. She has travelled a great deal of

course. Besides, she is not the type that gets excited before

breakfast. She snubbed me severely when I let out an enthusiastic

yelp at the sight of a giant blue convolvulus.

By the way, I should like to make it clear here and now that this

story will not be a story of South Africa. I guarantee no genuine

local colour—you know the sort of thing—half a dozen words in

italics on every page. I admire it very much, but I can’t do it.

In South Sea Islands, of course, you make an immediate reference

to _bêche-de-mer._ I don’t know what _bêche-de-mer_ is, I never

have known, I probably never shall know. I’ve guessed once or twice

and guessed wrong. In South Africa I know you at once begin to talk

about a _stoep_—I do know what a _stoep_ is—it’s the thing round

a house and you sit on it. In various other parts of the world you

call it a veranda, a piazza, and a ha-ha. Then again, there are

pawpaws. I had often read of pawpaws. I discovered at once what

they were, because I had one plumped down in front of me for

breakfast. I thought at first that it was a melon gone bad. The

Dutch waitress enlightened me, and persuaded me to use lemon juice

and sugar and try again. I was very pleased to meet a pawpaw. I

had always vaguely associated it with a _hula-hula,_ which, I

believe, though I may be wrong, is a kind of straw skirt that

Hawaiian girls dance in. No, I think I am wrong—that is a

_lava-lava._

At any rate, all these things are very cheering after England. I

can’t help thinking that it would brighten our cold Island life if

one could have a breakfast of _bacon-bacon,_ and then go out clad

in a _jumper-jumper_ to pay the books.

Suzanne was a little tamer after breakfast. They had given me a

room next to hers with a lovely view right out over Table Bay. I

looked at the view whilst Suzanne hunted for some special

face-cream. When she had found it and started an immediate

application, she became capable of listening to me.

“Did you see Sir Eustace?” I asked. “He was marching out of the

breakfast room as we went in. He’d had some bad fish or something

and was just telling the head waiter what he thought about it, and

he bounced a peach on the floor to show how hard it was—only it

wasn’t quite as hard as he thought and it squashed.”

Suzanne smiled.

“Sir Eustace doesn’t like getting up early any more than I do. But,

Anne, did you see Mr. Pagett? I ran against him in the passage.

He’s got a black eye. What can he have been doing?”

“Only trying to push me overboard,” I replied nonchalantly.

It was a distinct score for me. Suzanne left her face half anointed

and pressed for details. I gave them to her.

“It all gets more and more mysterious,” she cried. “I thought I

was going to have the soft job sticking to Sir Eustace, and that

you would have all the fun with the Rev. Edward Chichester, but

now I’m not so sure. I hope Pagett won’t push me off the train some

dark night.”

“I think you’re still above suspicion, Suzanne. But, if the worst

happens, I’ll wire to Clarence.”

“That reminds me—give me a cable form. Let me see now, what shall

I say. ‘Implicated in the most thrilling mystery please send me a

thousand pounds at once Suzanne.’”

I took the form from her, and pointed out that she could eliminate

a “the,” an “a,” and possibly, if she didn’t care about being

polite, a “please.” Suzanne, however, appears to be perfectly

reckless in money matters. Instead of attending to my economical

suggestions, she added three words more: “enjoying myself hugely.”

Suzanne was engaged to lunch with friends of hers, who came to the

hotel about eleven o’clock to fetch her. I was left to my own

devices. I went down through the grounds of the hotel, crossed the

tram-lines and followed a cool shady avenue right down till I came

to the main street. I strolled about, seeing the sights, enjoying

the sunlight and the black-faced sellers of flowers and fruits. I

also discovered a place where they had the most delicious ice-cream

sodas. Finally, I bought a sixpenny basket of peaches and retraced

my steps to the hotel.

To my surprise and pleasure I found a note awaiting me. It was from

the curator of the Museum. He had read of my arrival on the

_Kilmorden,_ in which I was described as the daughter of the late

Professor Beddingfeld. He had known my father slightly and had had

a great admiration for him. He went on to say that his wife would

be delighted if I would come out and have tea with them that

afternoon at their Villa at Muizenberg. He gave me instructions

for getting there.

It was pleasant to think that poor Papa was still remembered and

highly thought of. I foresaw that I would have to be personally

escorted round the Museum before I left Cape Town, but I risked

that. To most people it would have been a treat—but one can have

too much of a good thing if one is brought up on it, morning, noon

and night.

I put on my best hat (one of Suzanne’s cast-offs) and my least

crumpled white linen and started off after lunch. I caught a fast

train to Muizenberg and got there in about half an hour. It was a

nice trip. We wound slowly round the base of Table Mountain, and

some of the flowers were lovely. My geography being weak, I had

never fully realized that Cape Town is on a peninsula, consequently

I was rather surprised on getting out of the train to find myself

facing the sea once more. There was some perfectly entrancing

bathing going on. The people had short curved boards and came

floating in on the waves. It was far too early to go to tea. I made

for the bathing pavilion, and when they said would I have a surf

board, I said “Yes, please.” Surfing looks perfectly easy. _It

isn’t._ I say no more. I got very angry and fairly hurled my plank

from me. Nevertheless, I determined to return on the first possible

opportunity and have another go. I would not be beaten. Quite by

mistake I then got a good run on my board, and came out delirious

with happiness. Surfing is like that. You are either vigorously

cursing or else you are idiotically pleased with yourself.

I found the Villa Medgee after some little difficulty. It was right

up on the side of the mountain, isolated from the other cottages

and villas. I rang the bell, and a smiling Kafir boy answered it.

“Mrs. Raffini?” I inquired.

He ushered me in, preceded me down the passage and flung open a

door. Just as I was about to pass in, I hesitated. I felt a sudden

misgiving. I stepped over the threshold and the door swung sharply

to behind me.

A man rose from his seat behind a table and came forward with

outstretched hand.

“So glad we have persuaded you to visit us, Miss Beddingfeld,” he

said.

He was a tall man, obviously a Dutchman, with a flaming orange

beard. He did not look in the least like the curator of a museum.

In fact, I realized in a flash that I had made a fool of myself.

I was in the hands of the enemy.