He was trying for a short cut home, and purposed to wade the Revue river wherever he should strike it.  Over the low bush about him he could see his hills yet a couple of hours off, and he sighed for thirst and extreme discomfort.  No one, he knew, lived thereabouts—­no one, at least, who was likely to have whisky at hand, though, for the matter of that, he would have welcomed a hut and a draught of Kafir itywala.  His surprise was the greater, then, when there appeared from the growth beside his path as white a man as himself, a tall, somewhat ragged figure—­but rags tell no news at all in Manicaland—­ who wore a large black moustache and smiled affably on him.

He noted that the stranger was a fine figure of a man, tall and slim, with clear dark eyes and tanned face, and he saw, too, that he wore a heavy Webley on his right hip.  The newcomer continued to smile as Mills scanned him over, and waited for the trader to speak first.

“Hullo!” said Mills at length.

“’Ullo!” replied the stranger, smiling still.  He had a capital smile, and Mills was captivated into smiling in sympathy.

“Who may you be?” he asked agreeably; “didn’t expect to meet no white men about here.  Where’s your boys?”

The tall man waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the coast, as though to imply that he had carriers somewhere in that part of the world.

“Yais,” he said pleasantly.  “An’ you are Jone Mills, eh?”

“That’s me,” said Mills promptly, lowering the butt of his gun to the ground and resting both hands on the muzzle.  The stranger started slightly, but did not cease to smile.

“I don’t seem to know you,” pondered Mills.  “I can’t fix you at all.”

“Ah, but you will.  Le’ me see.  Was it Beira, eh?”

Mills shook his head decidedly.  “I never was in Beira,” he said.

“Not Beira?” queried the stranger.  “Oh, but surelee.  No?  Well, Mandega’s, per’aps?”

“Mandega’s?  Yes, I was there for a bit.  I had a block of claims on the ditch, next to old Jimmy Ryan’s.”

“Ah yais,” said the tall man eagerly.  “I know ‘im.  An’ there you shoot the Intendente, not?  That was ver’ fine.  I see you coom down all quiet, an’ shoot ’im in the ‘ead.  It was done ver’ naice, eh!”

Mills’s face darkened.  “He was robbin’ me, the swine,” he answered.  “He’d been robbin’ me for six months.  But that’s nobody’s business but mine, and anyhow I didn’t shoot him in the head.  It was in the chest.  An’ now, who the blazes are you?”

“You do’ know me?” smiled the stranger; “but I know you.  Oh, ver’ well.  I see you ver’ often.  You see.  My name is Jacques.”

“Jack what?” demanded Mills.

“Not Jack—­Jacques.  Tha’s all.  All the people call me Frenchy, eh?  You don’ remember?”

“No,” said Mills thoughtfully; “but then I seen a good many chaps, and I’d be like to forget some o’ them.  You doin’ anything round here?”