clouds. Trent was flatly told that the labour
they required was absolutely unprocurable. Fortunately Trent knew the
country, and he was a man of resource. From the moment when he had
appeared upon the spot, things had begun to right themselves. He had
found Oom Sam established as a sort of task-master and contractor, and
had promptly dismissed him, with the result that the supply of Kru boys
was instantly doubled. He had found other sources of labour and
started them at once on clearing work, scornfully indifferent to the
often-expressed doubts of the English surveyor as to possibility of
making the road at all. He had chosen overseers with that swift and
intuitive insight into character which in his case amounted almost to
genius. With a half-sheet of notepaper and a pencil, he had mapped out a
road which had made one, at least, of the two surveyors thoughtful, and
had largely increased his respect for the English capitalist. Now he was
on his way back from a tour almost to Bekwando itself by the route of
the proposed road. Already the work of preparation had begun. Hundreds
of natives left in their track were sawing down palm-trees, cutting away
the bush, digging and making ready everywhere for that straight, wide
thoroughfare which was to lead from Bekwando village to the sea-coast.
Cables as to his progress had already been sent back to London. Apart
from any other result, Trent knew that he had saved the Syndicate a
fortune by his journey here.

The light of the moon grew stronger--the country lay stretched out
before him like a map. With folded arms and a freshly-lit pipe Trent
leaned with his back against the tree and fixed eyes. At first he saw
nothing but that road, broad and white, stretching to the horizon and
thronged with oxen-drawn wagons. Then the fancy suddenly left him and
a girl's face seemed to be laughing into his--a face which was ever
changing, gay and brilliant one moment, calm and seductively beautiful
the next. He smoked his pipe furiously, perplexed and uneasy. One moment
the face was Ernestine's, the next it was Monty's little girl laughing
up at him from the worn and yellow tin-type. The promise of the one--had
it been fulfilled in the woman? At least he knew that here was the one
great weakness of his life. The curious flood of sentiment, which
had led him to gamble for the child's picture, had merged with equal
suddenness into passion at the coming of her later presentment. High
above all h