h to disguise their intent. And simultaneously with
the quick flash of vision in which he took in all this, his eye was
attracted to something on his front door, and if his nerves were
momentarily shaken it is little to be wondered at. For right across his
door, boldly drawn in charcoal, its head daubed with splotches of red,
was a great axe; and underneath this, in red lettering, were inscribed
the words,

"Stillwell's Flat."

The suddenness of the bolt might well have staggered him--the utter
unexpectedness of it. How had this grim skeleton been thus dug up from
its far-away and long-covered grave, and dangled here before him? Who
had done it? And, as his gaze wandered over the groups, it met that of
Sonnenberg, and on the evil countenance of the Jew was a smirk of
vindictive triumph. _He_ did not avert his glance.

The sight, however, was of all things the best that could possibly have
happened. It acted as a tonic. His nerves completely braced now, Roden
turned and deliberately examined the daub, looking it up and down from
top to bottom. Those furtive groups began to peer anxiously, eager to
see what he was going to do next. They expected to see him blanch, grow
agitated, perhaps turn faint; instead of which he stood examining the
hideous practical joke, with the ghost of a satirical grin drooping the
corners of his mouth. He had not turned a hair.

Then he called a native who was limping along on the other side of the
street.

"Tom."

It was indeed the _ci-devant_ warrior, now the priest's stable-boy. He
trotted across, grinning, and saluted.

"Where are you off to now, Tom?"

The Kaffir explained that he was going nowhere in particular. His
master was absent, and times were easy.

"Very well. Go inside and get a bucket and brush, and clean that
beautiful drawing off my door, while I'm at breakfast," said Roden,
chucking the boy a sixpence, and strolling leisurely down the street in
the direction of the Barkly.

Cool though he was, however, the incident had disturbed him not a
little. How had this thing come about? Who there could know anything
of his past? He saw in this the beginning of the end.

Was it with design, too, that throughout breakfast Chandler should so
persistently keep dragging round the conversation to the year 1868? It
looked like it. Nor was there any mistaking, either, the constraint in
the manner of others. Well, if they intended that sort of annoyance
they s