“Good-bye, father.  Oh! good-bye, father.”

A thought struck me, and I asked—­

“Is there any place here where your father locked up things?  As I have shown you, you are his heiress, and if so it might be as well in this house that you should possess yourself of his property.”

“There is a safe in the corner,” she answered, “of which he always kept the key in his trouser pocket.”

“Then with your leave I will open it in your presence.”

Going to the dead man I searched his pocket and found in it a bunch of keys.  These I withdrew and went to the safe over which a skin rug was thrown.  I unlocked it easily enough.  Within were two bags of gold, each marked #100; also another larger bag marked “My wife’s jewelry.  For Heda”; also some papers and a miniature of the lady whose portrait hung in the sitting-room; also some loose gold.

“Now who will take charge of these?” I asked.  “I do not think it safe to leave them here.”

“You, of course,” said Anscombe, while Heda nodded.

So with a groan I consigned all these valuables to my capacious pockets.  Then I locked up the empty safe, replaced the keys where I had found them on Marnham, fastened the shutter and left the room with Anscombe, waiting for a while outside till Heda joined us, sobbing a little.  After this we got something to eat, insisting on Heda doing the same.

On leaving the table I saw a curious sight, namely, the patients whom Rodd was attending in the little hospital of which I have spoken, departing towards the bush-veld, those of them who could walk well and the attendants assisting the others.  They were already some distance away, too far indeed for me to follow, as I did not wish to leave the house.  The incident filled me with suspicion, and I went round to the back to make inquiries, but could find no one.  As I passed the hospital door, however, I heard a voice calling in Sisutu—­

“Do not leave me behind, my brothers.”

I entered and saw the man on whom Rodd had operated the day of our arrival, lying in bed and quite alone.  I asked him where the others had gone.  At first he would not answer, but when I pretended to leave him, called out that it was back to their own country.  Finally, to cut the story short, I extracted from him that they had left because they had news that the Temple was going to be attacked by Sekukuni and did not wish to be here when I and Anscombe were killed.  How the news reached him he refused, or could not, say; nor did he seem to know anything of the death of Marnham.  When I pressed him on the former point, he only groaned and cried for water, for he was in pain and thirsty.  I asked him who had told Sekukuni’s people to kill us, but he refused to speak.

“Very well,” I said, “then you shall lie here alone and die of thirst,” and again I turned towards the door.

At this he cried out—­