RENCHARD had had more or less experience with native leaders or white men escaping from Latin authority along the east coast of Africa. He did not, by a good deal, set himself up to be any philanthropic assistant to fugitives; yet he had been more or less thrust into that very position, owing to his peculiar notions of justice as opposed to law, and to his readiness to lend the under dog a helping hand. This somewhat accounted for the wild hostility with which French and Portuguese regarded both him and his nameless, elusive schooner.
“Your name?” he asked quietly.
“Emile Forillon, monsieur,” answered the man.
“I suppose you realize,” said Trenchard, holding a match to his pipe, but regarding Forillon from beneath his lowered lids, “I suppose you realize that the prosperity and freedom, if not the actual lives, of the men who are helping you and me—men such as Ram Das Bhantjee—are dependent on your future silence. In other words, that they trust your fidelity.”
“Yes,” said the other, his eyes widening slightly at this speech.
“My name's Trenchard.”
Forillon made no response.
He was a thick-set but extremely wiry man, not over thirty, and he certainly looked his part, having a stubble of reddish beard, ragged garments and much dirt. His features expressed a certain stubborn tenacity, the undershot jaw looking as though it were double-bitted; the full and deep voice indicated a high-roofed singer's mouth, and each word was shot out with an intensity which showed that the man had deep strength of character. His sun-reddened face was that of an indoor man. His eyes were intelligent, striking, of a deep and vivid blue. The hands which gripped his wide straw hat were large and powerful; the square shoulders and posture of his body indicated military service. So Trenchard summed him up, and knew that he had to deal with a man of uncommon character and intelligence.
“If I were a chef de bureau,” said Trenchard, “I should not pick such a man as you to ensnare in false accusations.”
Forillon shrugged and smiled, showing white and even teeth, well cared for.
“What is done, is done, monsieur,” he said. “I must express my most grateful homage for what assistance you are giving me; and since I have money in
“Keep it,” said Trenchard. “You'll need it more than I do, and there are some things for which I don't take pay. Sit down and be comfortable. Smoke.”
Forillon looked astonished at the refusal of his money. He sat down, produced a pink packet of Oran cigarettes, and lighted one. Trenchard glanced through the high window, saw that darkness was rapidly falling, and tamped at his pipe as he spoke.
“You realize,” he said, “that accidents may happen.”
“But yes.” Forillon shrugged. “The presence of that gunboat in the bay makes one nervous, Captain Trenchard.”
“What boat is she?”
“The Sagittaire.”
“Obsolete,” murmured Trenchard. “One six-inch gun, four four-inch, a battery of three-pounders. Four fathom draft, which means that she wont venture in less than six. Collard, her commander, is a cautious old woman. She can do only six knots, and that with effort.”
Forillon's eyes opened. “My faith! You have information.”
“That is my business. I believe in living.” Trenchard's inscrutable smile touched his lips. “You have no effects, no luggage?”
“None. I suppose we cannot leave until the gunboat departs, eh?” Forillon spoke carelessly, but his fingers were gripping the cigarette very hard. “How and when do we reach your schooner?”
“Here and now,” said Trenchard. “We shall leave in five minutes.”
Forillon jerked his head slightly. His deep blue eyes fastened upon Trenchard, who read a flicker of alarm, of dismayed consternation, in their depths.
“Impossible!”
“Why impossible?” asked Trenchard, suddenly alert. The other hesitated, licked his lips, lifted his cigarette and puffed at it.
“I have—I must see the man who sheltered me. I must pay him.”
“I shall have it attended to. Give me the money.”
Forillon darted a glance around, then put a hand into his pocket and drew out a sheaf of notes. He counted out three hundred francs and gave them to Trenchard, who struck a gong on the table. The door opened, and Ram Das entered. Trenchard extended the money.
“Have this given to the man who has sheltered M. Forillon. How much do I owe you?”
Ram Das salaamed. “Sahib, he who sent you here would not be pleased if I accepted money from his guest.”
Trenchard rose. “Very well. For the hospitality, I thank you. Come along, Forillon.”