Englishman could not have put more disfavour into his tone. And he (Adams)
had made a compact with Captain Berselius.

The Rue du Mont Thabor is a somewhat gloomy little street, and it fitted
Adams's mood as he waited, watching the passers-by and the small affairs
of the little shops.

At the end of five minutes Stenhouse returned.

"Well?" said Adams.

"I have had no luncheon yet," replied Stenhouse. "I have been so rushed.
Come with me to a little place I know in the Rue St. Honore, where I can
get a cup of tea and a bun. We will talk then."

"Now," said Stenhouse, when he was seated at a little marble-topped table
with the cup of tea and the bun before him. "You say you have engaged
yourself to go to the Congo with Captain Berselius."

"Yes. What do you know about him?"

"That's just the difficulty. I can only say this, and it's between
ourselves, the man's name is a byword for a brute and a devil."

"That's cheerful," said Adams.

"Mind you," said Stenhouse, "he is in the very best society. I have met
him at a reception at the Elysee. He goes everywhere. He belongs to the
best clubs; he's a _persona grata_ at more courts than one, and an
intimate friend of King Leopold of Belgium. His immense wealth, or part of
it, comes from the rubber industry--motor tires and so forth. And he's mad
after big game. That's his pleasure--killing. He's a killer. That is the
best description of the man. The lust of blood is in him, and the
astounding thing, to my mind, is that he is not a murderer. He has killed
two men in duels, and they say that it is a sight to see him fighting.
Mind you, when I say 'murderer,' I do not mean to imply that he is a man
who would murder for money. Give the devil his due. I mean that he is
quite beyond reason when aroused, and if you were to hit Captain Berselius
in the face he would kill you as certain as I'll get indigestion from that
bun I have just swallowed. The last doctor he took with him to Africa died
at Marseilles from the hardships he went through--not at the hands of
Berselius, for that would have aroused inquiry, but simply from the
hardships of the expedition; but he gave frightful accounts to the
hospital authorities of the way this Berselius had treated the natives. He
drove that expedition right away from Libreville, in the French Congo, to
God knows where. He had it under martial law the whole time, clubbing and
thrashing the niggers at the least offence, and shooting with