Young Somers looked at me for a little while, then he broke into one of his hearty laughs and exclaimed, “Whatever else you may be, Mr. Allan Quatermain, you are a gentleman.  No bullion-broker in the City could have put the matter more fairly in the teeth of his own interests.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“For the rest,” he went on, “I too am tired of England and want to see the world.  It isn’t the golden Cypripedium that I seek, although I should like to win it well enough.  That’s only a symbol.  What I seek are adventure and romance.  Also, like you I am a fatalist.  God chose His own time to send us here, and I presume that He will choose His own time to take us away again.  So I leave the matter of risks to Him.”

“Yes, Mr. Somers,” I replied rather solemnly.  “You may find adventure and romance, there are plenty of both in Africa.  Or you may find a nameless grave in some fever-haunted swamp.  Well, you have chosen, and I like your spirit.”

Still I was so little satisfied about this business, that a week or so before we sailed, after much consideration, I took it upon myself to write a letter to Sir Alexander Somers, in which I set forth the whole matter as clearly as I could, not blinking the dangerous nature of our undertaking.  In conclusion, I asked him whether he thought it wise to allow his only son to accompany such an expedition, mainly because of a not very serious quarrel with himself.

As no answer came to this letter I went on with our preparations.  There was money in plenty, since the re-sale of “O.  Pavo” to Sir Joshua Tredgold, at some loss, had been satisfactorily carried out, which enabled me to invest in all things needful with a cheerful heart.  Never before had I been provided with such an outfit as that which preceded us to the ship.

At length the day of departure came.  We stood on the platform at Paddington waiting for the Dartmouth train to start, for in those days the African mail sailed from that port.  A minute or two before the train left, as we were preparing to enter our carriage I caught sight of a face that I seemed to recognise, the owner of which was evidently searching for someone in the crowd.  It was that of Briggs, Sir Alexander’s clerk, whom I had met in the sale-room.

“Mr. Briggs,” I said as he passed me, “are you looking for Mr. Somers?  If so, he is in here.”

The clerk jumped into the compartment and handed a letter to Mr. Somers.  Then he emerged again and waited.  Somers read the letter and tore off a blank sheet from the end of it, on which he hastily wrote some words.  He passed it to me to give to Briggs, and I could not help seeing what was written.  It was:  “Too late now.  God bless you, my dear father.  I hope we may meet again.  If not, try to think kindly of your troublesome and foolish son, Stephen.”

In another minute the train had started.

“By the way,” he said, as we steamed out of the station, “I have heard from my father, who enclosed this for you.”