Now I was able to make a shrewd guess at his later career.  After his trouble he had emigrated and began to practise in South Africa.  Somehow his identity had been discovered; his past was dragged up against him, possibly by rivals jealous of his skill; his business went and he found it advisable to retire to the Transvaal before the Annexation, at that time the home of sundry people of broken repute.  Even there he did not stop in a town, but hid himself upon the edge of savagery.  Here he foregathered with another man of queer character, Marnham, and in his company entered upon some doubtful but lucrative form of trade while still indulging his love of medicine by doctoring and operating upon natives, over whom he would in this way acquire great influence.  Indeed, as I discovered before the day was over, he had quite a little hospital at the back of the house in which were four or five beds occupied by Kaffirs and served by two male native nurses whom he had trained.  Also numbers of out-patients visited him, some of whom travelled from great distances, and occasionally, but not often, he attended white people who chanced to be in the neighbourhood.

The three of us breakfasted in a really charming room from the window of which could be studied a view as beautiful as any I know.  The Kaffirs who waited were well trained and dressed in neat linen uniforms.  The cooking was good; there was real silver on the table, then a strange sight in that part of Africa, and amongst engravings and other pictures upon the walls, hung an oil portrait of a very beautiful young woman with dark hair and eyes.

“Is that your daughter, Mr. Marnham?” I asked.

“No,” he replied rather shortly, “it is her mother.”

Immediately afterwards he was called from the room to speak to some one, whereon the doctor said—­

“A foreigner as you see, a Hungarian; the Hungarian women are very good looking and very charming.”

“So I have understood,” I answered, “but does this lady live here?”

“Oh, no.  She is dead, or I believe that she is dead.  I am not sure, because I make it a rule never to pry into people’s private affairs.  All I know about her is that she was a beauty whom Marnham married late in life upon the Continent when she was but eighteen.  As is common in such cases he was very jealous of her, but it didn’t last long, as she died, or I understand that she died, within a year of her daughter’s birth.  The loss affected him so much that he emigrated to South Africa with the child and began life anew.  I do not think that they correspond with Hungary, and he never speaks of her even to his daughter, which suggests that she is dead.”

I reflected that all these circumstances might equally well suggest several other things, but said nothing, thinking it wisest not to pursue the subject.  Presently Marnham returned and informed me that a native had just brought him word that the Basutos had made off homeward with our cattle, but had left the wagon and its contents quite untouched, not even stealing the spare guns and ammunition.