“How very improper,” I said. “Pagett will be quite shocked. He always did disapprove of Anne Beddingfeld. I suppose that was the young man she originally intended to meet in Durban?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t tell me anything you don’t want to,” I said, by way of encouraging him.
“I fancy that this is a young man we should all be very glad to lay our hands on.”
“Not—?” I cried, in rising excitement.
He nodded.
“Harry Rayburn, alias Harry Lucas—that’s his real name, you know. He’s given us all the slip once more, but we’re bound to rope him in soon.”
“Dear me, dear me,” I murmured.
“We don’t suspect the girl of complicity in any case. On her side it’s—just a love affair.”
I always did think Race was in love with Anne. The way he said those last words made me feel sure of it.
“She’s gone to Beira,” he continued rather hastily.
“Indeed,” I said, staring. “How do you know?”
“She wrote to me from Bulawayo, telling me she was going home that way. The best thing she can do, poor child.”
“Somehow, I don’t fancy she is in Beira,” I said meditatively.