And from the broken fragments of description that Benham let fall, White had an impression of him hunting for all those three days through the strange places of a Chinese city, along narrow passages, over queer Venetian-like bridges, through the vast spaces of empty warehouses, in the incense-scented darkness of temple yards, along planks that passed to the dark hulls of secret barges, in quick-flying boats that slipped noiselessly among the larger craft, and sometimes he hunted alone, sometimes in company, sometimes black figures struggled in the darkness against dim-lit backgrounds and sometimes a swarm of shining yellow faces screamed and shouted through the torn paper windows. . . .  And then at the end of this confused effect of struggle, this Chinese kinematograph film, one last picture jerked into place and stopped and stood still, a white wall in the sunshine come upon suddenly round a corner, a dirty flagged passage and a stiff crumpled body that had for the first time an inexpressive face. . . .

14

Benham sat at a table in the smoking-room of the Sherborough Hotel at Johannesburg and told of these things.  White watched him from an armchair.  And as he listened he noted again the intensification of Benham’s face, the darkness under his brows, the pallor of his skin, the touch of red in his eyes.  For there was still that red gleam in Benham’s eyes; it shone when he looked out of a darkness into a light.  And he sat forward with his arms folded under him, or moved his long lean hand about over the things on the table.

“You see,” he said, “this is a sort of horror in my mind.  Things like this stick in my mind.  I am always seeing Prothero now, and it will take years to get this scar off my memory again.  Once before—­ about a horse, I had the same kind of distress.  And it makes me tender, sore-minded about everything.  It will go, of course, in the long run, and it’s just like any other ache that lays hold of one.  One can’t cure it.  One has to get along with it. . . .

“I know, White, I ought to have sent that money, but how was I to know then that it was so imperative to send that money? . . .

“At the time it seemed just pandering to his vices. . . .

“I was angry.  I shall never subdue that kind of hastiness altogether.  It takes me by surprise.  Before the messenger was out of sight I had repented. . . .

“I failed him.  I have gone about in the world dreaming of tremendous things and failing most people.  My wife too. . . .”

He stopped talking for a little time and folded his arms tight and stared hard in front of himself, his lips compressed.