It was true in essentials, too, though I altered the
minor details. I made out that I was a mining magnate from Kimberley,
who had had a lot of trouble with I.D.B. and had shown up a gang.
They had pursued me across the ocean, and had killed my best friend, and
were now on my tracks.
I told the story well, though I say it who shouldn't. I pictured a
flight across the Kalahari to German Africa, the crackling, parching
days, the wonderful blue-velvet nights. I described an attack on my
life on the voyage home, and I made a really horrid affair of the
Portland Place murder. 'You're looking for adventure,' I cried;
'well, you've found it here. The devils are after me, and the police
are after them. It's a race that I mean to win.'
'By God!' he whispered, drawing his breath in sharply, 'it is all
pure Rider Haggard and Conan Doyle.'
'You believe me,' I said gratefully.
'Of course I do,' and he held out his hand. 'I believe everything
out of the common. The only thing to distrust is the normal.'
He was very young, but he was the man for my money.
'I think they're off my track for the moment, but I must lie close
for a couple of days. Can you take me in?'
He caught my elbow in his eagerness and drew me towards the
house. 'You can lie as snug here as if you were in a moss-hole. I'll
see that nobody blabs, either.
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