“Mr. Mangan,” he said, “you listen to me.  I sell this man the controlling interests in a mine, shares which I have held for four and a half years and never drew a penny dividend.  I sell them to him, I say, at par.  Well, I need the money and it seems to me that I had given the shares a fair chance.  Within five weeks—­five weeks, sir,” he repeated, struggling to attune his voice to his civilised surroundings, “those shares had gone from par to fourteen and a half.  To-day they stand at twenty.  He gave me five thousand pounds for those shares.  To-day he could walk into your stock market and sell them for one hundred thousand.  That is the way money is made in Africa, Mr. Mangan, where innocents like me are to be found every day.”

Dominey poured out a glass of wine and passed it to their visitor.

“Come,” he said, “we all have our ups and downs.  Africa owes you nothing, Seaman.”

“I have done well in my small way,” Seaman admitted, fingering the stem of his wineglass, “but where I have had to plod, Sir Everard here has stood and commanded fate to pour her treasures into his lap.”

The lawyer was listening with a curious interest and pleasure to this half bantering conversation.  He found an opportunity now to intervene.

“So you two were really friends in Africa?” he remarked, with a queer and almost inexplicable sense of relief.

“If Sir Everard permits our association to be so called,” Seaman replied.  “We have done business together in the great cities—­in Johannesburg and Pretoria, in Kimberley and Cape Town—­and we have prospected together in the wild places.  We have trekked the veldt and been lost to the world for many months at a time.  We have seen the real wonders of Africa together, as well as her tawdry civilisation.”

“And you, too,” Mr. Mangan asked, “have you retired?”

Seaman’s smile was almost beatific.

“The same deal,” he said, “which brought Sir Everard’s fortune to wonderful figures brought me that modest sum which I had sworn to reach before I returned to England.  It is true.  I have retired from money-making.  It is now that I take up again my real life’s work.”

“If you are going to talk about your hobby,” Dominey observed, “you had better order them to serve your lunch here.”

“I had finished my lunch before you came in,” his friend replied.  “I drink another glass of wine with you, perhaps.  Afterwards a liqueur—­who can say?  In this climate one is favoured, one can drink freely.  Sir Everard and I, Mr. Mangan, have been in places where thirst is a thing to be struggled against, where for months a little weak brandy and water was our chief dissipation.”

“Tell me about this hobby?” the lawyer enquired.

Dominey intervened promptly.  “I protest.  If he begins to talk of that, he’ll be here all the afternoon.”

Seaman held out his hands and rolled his head from side to side.