sprove it. Gorley
read his man shrewdly, and confessed the truth of the charge without an
attempt at mitigation. He asked frankly for a place in the troop, the
lowest, as his chance of redemption, or rather demanded it as a grace due
from man to man. Drake was taken by his manner, noticed his build, which
was tough and wiry, and conceded the request. Nor had he reason to regret
his decision on the march out. Gorley showed himself alert, and vigilant,
a favourite with the blacks, and obedient to his officers. He was
advanced from duty to duty; a week before the force began its homeward
march from Boruwimi he was sent out with a body of men to forage for
provisions. Three days later a solitary negro rushed into camp, one of
the few survivors of his tribe, he said. He told a story of food freely
given, a village plundered and burned for thanks, of gold-dust stolen and
the owners murdered that they might the better hold their tongues. He
signified Gorley as the culprit. Drake, guided by the negro, marched
towards the spot. He met Gorley and his company half-way between Boruwimi
and the village, carried him along with him, and proved the story true.
Against Gorley's troops no charge could be sustained; they had only
obeyed orders. But Gorley he court-martialled, and the result has been
described.

This was the incident which Drake was unwilling to commit to the
discretion of the editor of the _Meteor_. He had discovered Gorley's
relations in England, and had written to them a full account of the
affair, despatching with his letter a copy of the evidence given at the
court-martial. The reply came from the father, a heart-broken admission
of the justice of Drake's action, and a prayer that, for the sake of
those of the family who still lived, Gorley's crime should be as far as
possible kept secret. Drake gave the promise. So far he had kept it, he
realised, as he tossed aside the last copy of the _Meteor_.

At eight o'clock Sidney Mallinson arrived. He saw Drake at the top of
the flight of steps in the vestibule, and hesitated, perceiving that he
was alone.

'Hasn't Conway come?' he asked. 'I sent to him.'

'Not yet. It's barely eight.'

They shook hands limply and searched for topics of conversation.

'You look older than you did,' said Mallinson.

'Ah! Ten years, you know. You haven't changed much.'

Drake was looking at a face distinguished by considerable comeliness. The
forehead, however, overhung the features be